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GIVING AND 



EV- LUCAS 



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GIVING 
AND RECEIVING 

E. V. LUCAS 



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GIVING AND 
RECEIVING 

ESSAYS AND FANTASIES 



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COPYRIGHT, 1922 
BY GEORGE H, DORAN COMPANY 



GIVING AND RECEIVING. II 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



DEC 20 '22 



©C1AGB2473 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


Giving and Receiving 


9 


The Battle of the Mothers . 


16 


My Sculptor 


21 


Uno Fiascone 


27 


The Italian in England 


31 


The Eight Cities .... 


36 


A Forerunner of D'Annunzio 


43 


The Evolution of Whimsicality . 


48 


Points of Interest .... 


64 


A Signpost 


67 


Breguet 


71 


The Tail and the Souvenirs . 


76 


The Blue Ruritania 


81 


Signs and Avoirdupois 


105 


For Ourselves Alone 


116 


Another "Young Cricketers' Tutor" 


122 


On Being a Foreigner . 


. 126 


The Cynosure 


139 


Thoughts on Theft 


143 


Honours Easy . ... 


149 


Temptation 


. 154 


The Wardrobe 


158 



[V] 



Contents 

PAGE 

Reunion 163 

IN THE PADDED SEATS: 

i the cowardly consumer . . l68 

ii public spirit 172 

iii before and after .... 177 

iv tight corners 180 

v an implacable raconteur . . 185 

vi the bond 189 

Fate 194 

The Injustice 199 

"Whenever I See a Grey Horse ..." . 204 



[vi] 



GIVING AND RECEIVING 



GIVING AND RECEIVING 



GIVING AND RECEIVING 

ACCORDING to many of the Old Masters 
JLm. the earliest Christmas presents were given 
nearly two thousand years ago and were re- 
ceived probably with the utmost embarrassment. 
They consisted principally of gold and frank- 
incense and myrrh, and were laid at the feet of 
a tiny Baby lying in a manger in a stable in 
Judaea, the givers being three Wise Men — some 
say even kings — from the East: Melchior, Cas- 
par, and Balthasar. It is principally from pic- 
tures of the visit of the Three Kings that we 
derive our ideas of the incident; and it would 
now be a very arduous task to correct those 
ideas. But as a matter of Biblical history, the 
Child had long been born when the Wise Men 
arrived, and He was then not in the manger, 
but in the house. See St. Matthew's narrative, 
chapter ii, verse 11. St. Luke, in his story, 
makes the new-born Infant's first visitors 
neither Kings nor Wise Men from the East but 
shepherds. 

[9] 



Giving and Receiving 

In any case, the Baby can have had nothing 
to say, and how its mother, who had been in a 
state of surprise for some months, and her hus- 
band, who also had not a few thoughts to carry, 
behaved, we shall never know. But those were 
the first Christmas presents^ and for nineteen 
centuries the custom of giving them has been 
growing; but whether the art of giving them is 
any nearer perfection now than then is a ques- 
tion. I know, at any rate, that I was given 
several last Christmas which were not as 
"exactly what I had been wanting" as I pro- 
tested they were. 

Be this as it may, it is firmly fixed in our 
minds that, on His entrance into the world, 
the little Jesus was greeted with golden vessels 
containing frankincense and myrrh, and all 
children born on December 25, since that De- 
cember 25 so long ago, have felt it to be an 
injustice that their birthday and Christmas 
Day, by coinciding, should deprive them of 
half their proper meed of notice. A witty and 
fanciful friend of mine makes, however, the 
startling suggestion that in selecting that day 
on which to be born, Christ offers another proof 
of unselfishness. As to what the Infant 
thought as the grave strangers laid the offer- 
ings at His feet, we are in ignorance ; but we 
know that later, at any rate. He gave some 
[10] 



Giving and Receiving 

attention to the question of gifts, for did He 
not bewilder all children (especially at Christ- 
mas) and puzzle not a few of their elders, by 
enunciating the astonishing proposition that it 
is more blessed to give than to receive? 

Even those, however, who require time to 
take in the full significance of this saying will 
readily agree that giving is usually simpler — 
so much simpler indeed that there is almost no 
comparison between the two actions. Giving 
can be so easy as to be almost automatic, 
whereas receiving can make demands on every 
nerve. Givers, particularly careless ones — and 
most givers think too little — can survive to a 
great age and never have to practise any of 
the facial contortions and the tactful verbal 
insincerities which recipients of their generosity 
must be continually calling to their aid; where- 
as, if the art of giving were rightly understood 
and practised, the only expression to be seen 
on the features of the receivers of presents 
would be one of surprise and joy mingled, and 
that phrase, which is almost as common at 
Christmas time as "Same to you" — "Oh, thank 
you so much: it's exactly what I wanted," 
would ring with the bell-like tones and vibra- 
tions of genuineness. As it is — wholly be- 
cause giving is so simple: an affair of a shop- 

[11] 



Giving and Receiving 

assistant's advice, of the writing of a cheque — 
as it is, most elephants are white. 

Profane as well as sacred history tells us 
more of the giving of presents than of their 
reception. In fact, to enumerate the oiferings 
of king to king is one of the historian's simple 
pleasures. But we have, as a rule, no informa- 
tion either as to the remarks made by the recipi- 
ent whose appraising eye checked oflf the apes 
and the ivory and the peacocks, or the consulta- 
tions of the Ministers of State as the consign- 
ment of generosity was being made up. One can 
see them in committee a few days before the 
monarch sets .forth on his expedition to the 
friendly State: "Don't you think" (the Chan- 
cellor of tlie Exchequer is speaking), "don't you 
think two hundred milk-white steeds excessive? 
Wouldn't one himdred do.''" 

"Or even fifty.''" says the Home Secretary. 

"Yes, or even fifty. It isn't as if we were 
visiting a really first-class Power" — and so with 
the bars of gold, the precious stones, the spices 
(such as the Queen of Sheba carried to Solo- 
mon), all would have to be carefully measured 
according to the importance of the other king 
or the need of his alliance. 

And then there is his side of the transaction: 
"Well, I must say I think they might have been 
a little less stingy. Only five hundred bales of 
[12] 



Giving and Receiving 

silk ! Not enough for more than half the ladies 
of the Court; for you can't expect any two to 
wear the same colour. And only thirty pal- 
freys! Distinctly on the mean side." I forget 
what Henry the Eighth gave Francis the First 
at the Field of tlie Cloth of Gold, but the odds 
are that not a little criticism resulted. And 
yet the odds also are that Francis vowed, hand 
on heart, that it was all exactly what he had 
been most desiring. 

In those old days the first thought of the 
receiver of a present was to return it in kind; 
which has a certain crudity, and indeed imports 
an element of calculation into the act of giving 
at all. It was impossible for the visiting mon- 
arch not to speculate on what he was going to 
receive on his departure; and that is bad. A 
small child intently preparing, under what she 
conceives to be conditions of profound secrecy, 
a gift for her mother is one of the prettiest of 
sights. It would lose at least half its charm 
if it were the rule that on presenting the kettle- 
holder or egg-cover she was instantly to be 
handed one for herself. 

Proverbial philosophy warns us not to look 
gift-horses in the mouth; but the lessons of the 
past point in the other direction. Troy would 
still be standing had the advice of the old saw 
been disregarded. None the less, it might do a 

[13] 



Giving and Receiving 

world of good if one Christmas — this next 
Christmas, for example — we all decided to tell 
the truth and say exactly what we thought of 
our presents. "Thank you for nothing. I can 
see where you've erased your own name and put 
mine in." "Surely I was worth more than 
three-and-eleven ! I saw these at Harker's last 
week and noted the price." "What's the use 
of giving me a diary when you must know I 
never keep one?" "Good heavens, you don't 
really expect me to wear a tie of that colour!" 
But in spite of the salutary effect upon givers 
which might result, I doubt if we could go so 
far. The human family is held together so 
largely by compromise and lack of candour that 
its total disintegration might follow; and do we 
want that yet.'' Not before the next cricket 
season, at any rate. 

So much for the wrong kind of present. As 
for the best, it has been laid down that no 
present is worth having unless the giver would 
rather have kept it for himself; and I think 
the truth lurks here. And there is still another 
variety, but it cannot be very common. At 
least — perhaps it is. At a certain home, the 
head of which was a stern and not too lavish 
autocrat in the house, whatever he might have 
been out of it, there was delivered one Christmas 
Eve a mysterious box brought by a mysterious 



Giving and Receiving 

man, who refused to divulge any particulars; 
merely saying it was for the master. When, 
after much speculation, it was opened, it was 
found to contain a massive piece of silver, on 
which was an inscription stating that it was the 
gift of an unknown neighbour and was offered 
as some recognition of the many kind and gener- 
ous acts wliich the recipient had, within the 
donor's cognisance, performed, often with com- 
plete anonymity. The master of the house did 
not conceal his satisfaction as he read this en- 
graved testimonial, even if his family were 
more successful with their surprise. Long after- 
wards it was discovered that, with the idea of 
impressing them, he had sent it himself. 



[15] 



THE BATTLE OF THE MOTHERS 

"How is it with aged women?" 

Nat Chapman. 

WE were sitting in the smoking-room of 
the Club when the venerable Archdeacon 
entered. He had been so long absent that we 
asked him the reason. Had he been ill.'' 

111? Not he. He didn't hold with illness. 
Never was better in his life. He had merely 
been on a motor tour with his mother. 

"Do you mean to say," some one inquired — 
an equally aged member — almost with anger, 
certainly with a kind of outraged wonder, "that 
you have a mother still living?" 

"Of course I have," said the Man of God. 
"My mother is not only living but is in the 
pink of condition." 

"And how old is she?" the questioner con- 
tinued. 

"She is ninety-one," said the Archdeacon 
proudly. 

Most of us looked at him with surprise and 
respect — even a touch of awe. 

"And still motoring!" I commented. 

"She delights in motoring." 
[16] 



The Battle of the Mothers 

"Well," said the testy man, "you needn't 
be so conceited about it. You are not the only 
person with an elderly mother. I have a mother 
too." 

We switched round to this new centre of 
surprise. It was even more incredible that this 
man should have a mother than the Archdeacon. 
No one had ever suspected him of anything so 
extreme, for he had a long white beard and 
hobbled with a stick. 

"And how old may your mother be,''" the 
Archdeacon inquired. 

"My mother is ninety-two." 

"And is she well and hearty?" 

"My mother," he replied, "is in rude health — 
or, as you would say, full of beans." 

The Archdeacon made a deprecatory move- 
ment of dissociation from that vegetable. 

"My mother not only motors," the layman 
pursued, "but she can walk. Can your mother 
walk.?" 

"I am sorry to say," said the Archdeacon, 
"that my mother has to be helped a good deal." 

"Ha !" said the layman. 

"But," the Archdeacon continued, "she has 
all her other faculties. Can your mother still 
read.?" 

"My mother is a most accomplished and 
assiduous knitter," said the rival son. 

[17] 



Giving and Receiving 

"No doubt, no doubt," the Archdeacon agreed ; 
"but my question was, Can she still read?" 

"With glasses — yes," said the other. 

"Ha!" exclaimed the Archdeacon, "I thought 
so. Now, my dear mother can still read the 
smallest print without glasses." 

We murmured our approval. 

"And more," the Archdeacon went on, "she 
can thread her own needle." 

We approved again. 

"That's all very well," said the other, "but 
sight is not everything. Can your mother 
hear?" 

"She can hear all that I say to her," replied 
the Archdeacon. 

"Ah ! but you probably raise your voice, and 
she is accustomed to it. Could she hear a 
stranger? Could she hear me?" 

Remembering the trend of some of his after- 
lunch conversations I suggested that perhaps it 
would be well if on occasions she could not. 
He glowered down such frivolity and proceeded 
with his cross-examination. "Are you trying 
to assure us that your mother is not in the least 
bit deaf?" 

"Well," the Archdeacon conceded, "I could 
not go so far as to say that her hearing is still 
perfect." 
[18] 



The Battle of the Mothers 

The layman smiled his satisfaction. "In 
other words," he said, "she uses a trumpet?" 

The Archdeacon was silent. 

"She uses a trumpet. Sir? Admit it." 

"Now and then," said the Archdeacon, "my 
dear mother repairs the ravages of time with 
the assistance of modern mechanism." 

"I knew it!" exclaimed the other. "My 
mother can hear every word. She goes to the 
theatre constantly: it is one of her great solaces. 
Now, your mother would have to go to the 
cinema if she wished to be entertained." 

"My mother," said the Archdeacon, "would 
not be interested in the cinema" (he pronounced 
it kinema) ; "her mind is of a more serious 
turn." 

"My mother is yoimg enough to be interested 
in anything," said the other. "And there is 
not one of her thirty-eight grandchildren of 
whose progress she is not kept closely in- 
formed." 

He leaned back with a gesture of triumph. 

"How many grandchildren did you say?" 
the Archdeacon inquired. "I didn't quite catch." 

"Thirty-eight," the other man replied. 

Across the cleric's ascetic features a happy 
smile slowly and conqueringly spread. "My 
mother," he said, "has fifty-two grandchildren." 
He gave us time for the figure to sink in. "And 

[19] 



Giving and Receiving 

now," he turned to me, "which of us would you 
say has won this entertaining contest?" 

"I should not like to decide/' I said. "I 
am — fortunately perhaps for your mothers — no 
Solomon. My verdict is that both of you are 
wonderfully lucky men." 



[20] 



MY SCULPTOR 

AMONG the knick-knacks in the rooms which 
^ Meyrick had lent me was one that pleased 
me particularly — a baby boy in bronze kicking 
the void with tremendous gusto and glee. Stand- 
ing in the window, as he did, he was the first 
thing one saw against the light: a symbol of 
lively energy and fun. The name of the sciilp- 
tor — GOALi — in capitals, was on the front of the 
base, rather more in evidence, I thought, than 
is usual; but one has so often to hunt, and 
many times in vain, for the signature on a 
bronze, that such prominence could not offend. 

Some names, as you know, cling to the mem- 
ory as surely as others evade it, and whenever 
I caught sight of the figure I thought of its 
moulder, and I used to peer about in Art shops 
for other examples of Goali's work. I even 
inquired of two or three Bond Street dealers 
if they could show me anything by him. But I 
was out of luck. 

Goali.'' No, they had nothing of his; not at 
the moment. They could show me a figure by 
Pomeroy. A mask of Reid Dick's. Did I care 
for Wells's peasants.'' Haseltine's bronze 
horses ? 

[21] 



Giving and Receiving 

I was interested, I said, in Goali. Figures 
of merry romping children. 

Yes, yes. But at the moment they had 
nothing. 

In idle moments I used to wonder what Goali 
was like and where he worked — was even now 
working. Probably in Rome. To any one who 
causes me to think of Rome I am grateful, and 
I was grateful to Goali. I would sometimes 
fancy myself sharing his life. A walk in the 
Pincio Gardens before he settled to work in his 
studio somewhere off the Via del Babuino. 
Then his modelling, with probably one of his 
own olive-skinned brood as sitter, and Signora 
Goali there to keep it happy and exchange gos- 
sip with her husband. I could see his rumpled 
black hair and his hands all over the white 
clay. 

They would have lunch in their own apart- 
ment: spaghetti (which the Goalis, even the 
children, would all manage vrith a careless dex- 
terity heart-breaking to the self-conscious Eng- 
lish), perhaps some infinitesimal birds — uccelli 
— on a skewer, and some red wine and water; 
and then Goali would hurry off for coffee at 
that noisy friendly place in the Corso, all of 
whose frequenters know each other and have so 
much to say. What is it called? Oh, yes, 
Aragno's. There he would smoke uncountable 
[22] 



My Sculptor 

cigarettes and glance at the paper and laugh 
and gesticulate and discuss. 

After that, more work, and then he might (at 
any rate I preferred that he should) make for 
the pallone court a little way outside the Porta 
del Popolo and win or lose a few lire over the 
games, putting his money on the giant hattitore; 
and at evening I would see that he dined, as 
an event, with the Signora and a few of their 
artistic friends, at that curious old restaurant 
in Trastevere with the long name that begins 
with "P," where the fish is so good and you 
are waited upon by a hunchback with sparkling 
eyes. 

Another time I would make Goali a Florentine 
and share his life in his own beautiful city; and 
one very hot day I made him a Venetian and 
we bathed at the Lido. After all, he might 
easily be a Venetian. In those sculpture shops 
in the Piazza of San Marco such works as 
Goali's are the principal stock-in-trade. 

Everybody who came to see me liked the 
little bronze boy with his chubby foot in the 
air — the blithe spirit of him and his rounded 
grace. 

"That's a jolly thing," they would say. "Who 
did it?" 

"Goali," I would reply. "The name's under- 
neath." 

[23] 



Giving and Receiving 

Sometimes a guest would know all about him. 
Jack Raynor, for instance, who early made 
omniscience his hobby, was delighted to find 
that I had an example. 

"Oh, yes: Goali," he said, "He's made a 
corner in children. Dashed clever thing to do, 
because kids are so popular. You get nice easy 
lines too. I forget where he comes from, either 
Milano or Torino, I fancy." 

"Are you sure.''" I asked, a little sadly, for 
I was disappointed; "I should so much rather 
he came from Rome. I think of him as from 
the South anyway. I don't really see why he 
shouldn't be a Neapolitan"; and as I spoke I 
saw Goali loitering on the sea wall between 
Naples and Posilippo watching just such a boy 
as he had modelled playing in the sun with 
other mischievous little rogues, 

"I believe he's a Northerner," Jack Raynor 
replied. "But I'll find out for certain." 

And then after his long holiday Meyrick 
came back and I had to find rooms elsewhere. 

"I hope you've been comfortable," he said, 
"and all those odds and ends" — he included 
his beloved articles of virtii with a sweeping 
hand — "haven't bored you." 

I reassured him. "And as for that bronze 
baby," I said, "he's been the apple of my eye." 

"Oh, the little kicking cherub," he replied. 
[24] 



My Sculptor 

"Yes, I like that too; but I've always rather 
resented the football idea. He so obviously 
represents the sheer joy of life that it's silly to 
give it that title." 

"What title.?" I asked. 

"Why, 'goal !' " he said. 

" 'Goal !' " I examined the bronze more 
closely. "Is that 'Goal.?' " I asked. "The let- 
tering's very poor, isn't it.? The exclamation 
mark's exactly like an 'I.' I always thought — . 
Well, no matter what I thought. Who do you 
think is the sculptor.?" 

"I haven't a notion," he said. "It's unsigned. 
But I fancy it's English." 

Signor Goali, my evanescent Italian friend, 
farewell. 



[25] 



UNO FIASCONE 

MY friend Goali, even though he never lived 
and modelled, existed in fancy long 
enough to bring back very vividly old days in 
Rome. In particular, those rooms over the shop 
not very far from the famous flight of steps 
where the flower-girls sit with their big blos- 
soming baskets; not very far from the house 
where Keats died. 

When one is in Rome, to do as Rome does 
is not enough. So I had argued. One must 
speak as Rome speaks, too; otherwise how can 
one have any fun? Of what use to sit outside 
Aragno's if every word trilling and rolling in 
the circumambient air is incomprehensible .'' 
How elucidate the titles of pictures.^ How 
conduct disputes with cabmen, porters and 
others of the traveller's natural foes.'' And 
worse almost than useless to meet the beautiful 
Roman ladies ! 

I determined therefore that I would stay in a 
polyglot hotel only just so long as it took me to 
find rooms in a truly Roman house, where noth- 
ing but Italian was talked, and where I should 
be forced either to overcome any natural lin- 
[26] 



Uno Fiascone 

guistic indolence or suffer every kind of dis- 
comfort. Thus should I learn the language. 
All hotels are alike — no matter where they are 
— and so long as I was in one of them I should 
not acquire a single indigenous phrase; but in 
rooms the vocabulary would grow and the syn- 
tax gradually be acquired. That (I. said) is 
the only way — ^to live in rooms among the 
people. 

I possessed a few words, of course. One can- 
not frequent London restaurants and be utterly 
ignorant of Italian. But they were very few, 
and all, or nearly all, bore rather upon physical 
requirements than, say, philosophy. Signor 
Benedetto Croce's wisdom remained a sealed 
book to me, although I could make some kind 
of a success in ordering either a collasione or a 
pranzo. But such words as I had were, so to 
speak, single bricks. There was a total lack of 
mortar. I could command spaghetti, but I could 
not then say, "I don't like these spaghetti. They 
are insufficiently cooked. Perhaps I could have 
something else instead." By going into resi- 
dence in rooms in a thoroughly Italian house I 
felt that all these little defects would be put 
right. 

Cheaper too. 

Having decided upon the neighbourhood I 
preferred — somewhere near the famous flight of 

[27] 



Giving and Receiving 

steps — I began to look about for placards with 
notices of apartments to let. (I forget the 
phrase, but I knew it then.) There were many, 
and I visited them all, but some objection was 
always present. Often it was merely personal 
distaste on my side, but usually it was the 
circumstance that English was spoken. Most 
English people seeking rooms in Rome prefer, 
it seems, that their own tongue should be the 
only one that is employed. Hence a smattering 
of English was common among the landladies, 
and they freely boasted of it. 

At last, however, I struck a piece of good 
fortune. I came to a large and what must have 
been once a patrician mansion, with the whole 
first floor to let. The rooms were vast, with 
high white walls and cold red tiles. There was 
a gigantic sitting-room, a palatial bedroom, and 
a little annexe in which a bath had been placed. 
Ancient and massive furniture was scattered 
frugally about. Outside the sitting-room was a 
balcony, over which at the moment — it was 
autumn — a vine was clambering, with little 
purple grapes within reach of an idle hand; and 
below was a tangled and very foreign garden. 
Two centuries ago some important Roman had 
lorded it here; to-day it was in the tenancy 
of a tailor, or rather two tailors, a father and 
son. And it was the father, an aged man with- 
[28] 



Uno Fiascone 

out a word of English, who showed me round. 
Thoughts of Andrea del Sarto made the idea of 
living at an Italian tailor's rather attractive, 
and as I liked the place we began to bar- 
gain. 

This we accomplished with the assistance of 
pencil, paper and a dictionary; but I need tell 
no one familiar with Italy that the old man 
never ceased talking all the time. The two 
controlling words of the discourse were figlio 
and moglie; and, although as to what he said 
about those two personages I had no notion, I 
was conscious that it was something that he 
clearly thought I ought to know and should like 
to know. 

I forget what was decided upon — how many 
lire a week — but we came to an arrangement 
and I intimated that I would bring my things 
there during the afternoon and settle in at once. 
I also paid a month in advance. 

At half-past five, therefore, I arrived in a 
loaded four-wheeler and entered the tailors' 
shop. The old man was delighted to see me 
and at once began to call loud up the stairs. 

In a minute or so a young woman hurried 
down and greeted me. 

It was his son's wife, his figlio's moglie. 

"Good afternoon," she said. "I put the 
kettle on in kise you wanted some tea. I'm 

[29] 



Giving and Receiving 

sure we'll all do our best to mike you comfy 
■vrhile you're 'ere." 

The tailor's son had married a girl from 
Islington ! 

That was many years ago. I am still unable 
to ask for something to take the place of under- 
cooked spaghetti. 



[80] 



THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 

IN the course of my search for Italian conver- 
sation manuals I came upon one which put 
so strangely novel a complexion on our own 
tongue that, though it was not quite what I was 
seeking, I bought it. To see ourselves as others 
see us is notoriously a difficult operation; but 
to hear ourselves as Italians hear us is by this 
little book made quite easy. Every one knows 
the old story of the Italian who entered an 
East-bound omnibus in the Strand and petrified 
the conductor by asking to be put down at 
Kay-ahp-see-day. Well, this book was perhaps 
built up on the bitterness of that experience. 

But its special attraction is the personality 
of the protagonist as it is revealed by his vari- 
ous conversa'^'ons and remarks. Most of us 
who are not linguists confine our conversations 
in foreign places to the necessities of life, rarely 
leaving the beaten track of bread and butter, 
knives and forks, the times of trains, cab fares, 
the way to the station, the way to the post- 
office, hotel prices and washing lists. But this 
Italian in England is intrepid. He has no such 
reluctances. He embroiders and dilates. Where 

[31] 



Giving and Receiving 

we in Italy would at the most say to the 
cameriere, "Portaci una tazza di caffe," and 
think ourselves lucky to get it, he lures the 
London waiter to invite a disquisition on the 
precious berry. 

Thus, he begins: "Coffi is A-marchebl for iz 
vere stim-iuletin propeTte. Du ju no hau it uds 
discovvard?" 

The waiter very promptly and properly say- 
ing, "No Sor," the Italian unloads as follows: 
"Uel, ai uil tel ju thet iZ discbvvare is sed tu 
hev bin dchesciont hai thi folloin sorcdmstanZ. 
SomgotS, hu brauS-t op-bn thi plent, from huicc 
thi coffi stds aV gathaXd, ueaV observ-d bai thi 
gdthaXds tu bi echsidingle uechful, end ofn tu 
chepaT ebaut in thi naitj thi praior Ov e nebBirin 
monnastere, uiscin tu chip his mbnchs euech et 
theaT mattins, traid if thi coffi ud prodiiiS thi 
sem effecht bp-bn them, es it ubs bbserv-d tu du 
bp-bn thi gotSj thi sbch-ses bv his echsperiment 
led tu thi appresciescibn bv iZ valliu." 

A little later a London bookseller has the 
temerity to place some new fiction before our 
author, but pays dearly for his rash act. In 
these words does the Italian let him have it: — 
"Ai du nbt laich nbv-els et bl, bico-S e nbv-el is 
bat e fich-tiscibs tet stof-t bv so mene fantastical 
dids end nonsensical ubrds, huicc bpset maind 
end halt, An-hepp6 tho-S an-uer6 jbngh per- 
[32] 



The Italian in England 

sons,, hu spend theaT pre-scios taim in riding 
nov-els! The du not no thet ndv-ellists,.u96 
neralle spichin, aT thi laitest end thi most huim- 
sical raittaVs, hu hev nested end uest theaY laif 
in liudnes." 

English people abroad do not^ as a rule, drop 
aphorisms by the way ; but this Italian mentor 
loves to do so. Thus, to one stranger (in the 
section devoted to Virtues and Vices), he re- 
marks, "Uithaut Riligidn ui sciud hi uorS then 
btsts." To another, "Thi igotist sptchs contin- 
niilall& ov himself end mechs himself thi sentaT 
6v evvere thingh." And to a third, "Impolait- 
nes is disgostin." He is sententious even to his 
hatter: "E het sciiid hi proporsiond tu thi hed 
end person, for it is Idf-ihl tu si e laVgg het 
dp-dn e smol hed, end e smol het op-on e laYgg 
hed." 

But sometimes he goes all astray. He is, for 
instance, desperately ill-informed as to English 
railway law. "In England," he says, and be- 
lieves the pathetic fallacy, "thi trens start end 
arraiv vere pdngh-ciua.lle, dthaT-uais passen- 
giaVs hu arraiv-let for theaT bisnes, cud siu thi 
Comp&ne for dem-egg-S." 

He is calm and collected in an emergency. 
"Bi not efred. Madam," he says to a lady in 
flames, "thi faiV hes cot jur gaun. Le daun 
op-on thi fldr, end ju uil put aut thi fail with 

[33] 



Giving and Receiving 

jur hends." His presence of mind saves him 
from using his own hands for the purpose. Re- 
sourcefulness is indeed as natural to him as to 
Sir Christopher Wren in the famous poem. 
"Uilliam (he says), if enBbdde asch-s for mi, ju 
uil se thet ai seel be bech in e fort-nait." 

Finding himself in the country — perhaps in 
Epping Forest — he becomes thus lyrical: "In 
thi spring, neccioT sims tu riviav, evvere-thingh 
smails. Thi erth is addrnd. with grin, thi trts 
aT dech-d uith livs end blossoms. In sciort, thi 
contre is dilaitful, thi medoS end thi gardens aT 
enameld uith flaiiaVs. In uintaT, on thi contraVe, 
evvere thingh lenguisccBs, end thi deS aT verC 
tidios. Ui chen scherS-le go aut uith-aut ghettin 
dorte." And again: "Thi month ov Marcc is 
uinde. It is suit tu slip in thi month ov Epril. 
Thi contre luchs verB plesent in thi month dv 
Me. The mo thi medoS in Giun. It is echse- 
dingle hot in Giulai." 

Miss Butterfield crosses our path for a mo- 
ment and is gone. 

"Mis Bdttarfild," he says, "uil ju ghiv mi e 
glas ov uotaV, if ju pliS9" And that is the end 
of the lady. Or I think so. But there is just 
a possibility that it is she whom he rebukes in 
a Coffee House: "Mai dial, du not spich dv 
pbllitichs in e Coffi-Haus, for no travvellaT, if 
priudent, evvaV tdchs ebaut pbllitichs in pob- 
[34] 



The Italian in England 

lich." And again it may be for Miss Butter- 
field that he orders a charming present (first 
saying it is for a lady) : "Ghiv mi thet rippitaV 
set uith rubes, thet straich-S thi aurs end thi 
hdf-aurS." 

Finally he embarks for Australia and quickly 
becomes as human as the rest of us. "Thi 
uind," he murmurs uneasily, "is raisin. Thi si 
is vere rdf. Thi mo-scion bv thi Sttm-hot 
mech-S mi anuel. Ai fU verB sich. Mai hed is 
dizze. Ai hev got e hed-ech." But he assures 
a fellow-passenger that there is no cause for 
fear, even if a storm should come on. "Du 
not hi alarmd," he says, "theaT is no dengg-av. 
Thi C hep-ten dv this Stim^aT is e vere clevaT 
men." 

His last words, addressed apparently to the 
rest of the passengers as they reach Adelaide, 
are these: "Let ds mech hest end go tu thi 
Cdstdm-IIauS tu hev aur Idgh-eggS ech-samint. 
In Ostrelia, thi Cdstdm-HauS OffiisaTs aV not 
hdtte, bat verQ polait." 



[35] 



THE EIGHT CITIES 

ENGLAND has, officially and collectively, 
such decided views as to the immorality or 
undesirability of wagering and games of chance 
that, although most of us put and take, bet, and 
play cards for money, to do any of these things 
anywhere but in a licensed "place," such as 
part of a racecourse, or in private in a drawing- 
room or a club, is an offence against good morals 
and punishable by law. Right or wrong is 
purely a matter of locality! 

Since the English always enjoy the luxury 
of two consciences, one individual and one civic, 
such odd discrepancies between our personal 
and our national opinions will persevere, and 
we meanwhile shall continue to enjoy the re- 
spect which the rest of the world entertains for 
elasticity and adaptivity. No doubt of that. 

Having recently been watching Italy at its 
all-the-year-round amusement, so profitable to 
the revenue, of Lotto, and witnessed so little 
resultant distress and calamity, I am wondering 
if Lotto might not be introduced here as an 
example of taxation without tears. That it is 
unlikely to be, I know, even in a country where 
[36] 



The Eight Cities 

gambling by newspaper coupons and gambling 
through turf commission agents (who are al- 
lowed to advertise in the papers) is encouraged, 
although poor little street-corner bookmakers 
are hurried before the magistrate. Nor am I 
sure that I want the acclimatization of Lotto; 
but I should like England to come out into the 
open about gambling generally. Our present 
state of humbug is very disgusting. 

Let me, however, describe Lotto. 

Every Saturday in the eight principal cities 
of Italy — Rome, Naples, Bari, Venice, Genoa, 
Florence, Turin, and Milan — at two o'clock, in 
some public place, a company assembles, con- 
sisting of three or four officials and a minute 
charity schoolboy. (I may not have the details 
of the ceremony exactly right, but I am near 
them.) One official holds above his head a 
well-shaken box containing the numbers from 
one to (I believe) ninety. Another holds above 
his head a dish. Then the little boy, who is very 
likely blindfolded, mounts a chair, and, reaching 
up, takes out a number from the box and places 
it in the other receptacle, and so on until he has 
taken five. Another citizen, utterly above 
suspicion, then, in the full view of such on- 
lookers as have gathered, collects and announces 
these five numbers, and they are given to the 
press for immediate publication. All the fore- 

[37] 



Giving and Receiving 

going precautions, I should say, are taken to 
prevent the possibility of any of the numbers 
being previously known, or the possibility of 
any substitution. 

That is what has happened, say, in Milan, to 
ascertain what Milan's five numbers are. Pre- 
cisely similar means have meanwhile been taken 
in Rome, Naples, Bari, Turin, Venice, Florence 
and Genoa to obtain five numbers each. The 
result is as soon as possible tabulated in every 
Banco di Lotto window for the lucky to gloat 
over and the unlucky (who, I need hardly say, 
are more numerous) to deplore to the mur- 
mured accompaniment, "If only I had " 

We must now go backwards and see what has 
been happening all over Italy from morning to 
night ever since the previous Monday. To the 
various Government offices (you have seen little 
shops called Banco di Lotto constantly in Ital- 
ian streets everywhere), the people have been 
flocking, all intent on the precarious task of 
finding numbers that will come up on the fol- 
lowing Saturday afternoon, and putting money 
on them for purposes of gain. Every one has a 
flutter at Lotto at some time or other; many 
people make an effort every week. The insti- 
tution might almost be called the silver lining 
of life. You can have as many chances to win 
as you like to pay for, and arrange your bets 
[38] 



The Eight Cities 

as you will. You may try to name the numbers 
for all the eight towns, but the odds here would 
be so great that the Italian Exchequer could 
hardly pay you if you won. 

To get all five numbers right for one town is 
worth a fortune, and it has only once or twice 
been done. The ordinary single bet is on three 
numbers for one town, the odds against which 
are refreshingly heavy, but most people distrib- 
ute their numbers over all the eight — the rota, 
as it is called — or, perhaps, only three of them. 
The lowest amount that can be ventured is 
twenty-five centisimi — which used to be just 
under two-pence, but is now (1922) nearer a 
halfpenny. As I say, this wagering has been 
going on all the week, and all classes of society 
are represented, either in person or by deputy. 
The priests are great hands at it. But the real 
congestion is to be seen on Saturday morning, 
because the superstitious believe in waiting till 
the last moment, always hoping for further 
light from the gambler's heaven. 

At two the offices close, and then life becomes 
a feverish blank until the newspaper boys begin 
to rush through the streets with the fatal results 
from the eight cities. The winnings, however, 
are not paid until Monday, and then only the 
smaller ones. For a real coup to be liquidated 
the winner must wait, because Italy knows just 

[39] 



Giving and Receiving 

as well as we do what red tape is, even though 
she may lack our glaring inconsistencies. 

I used just now the phrase, "the supersti- 
tious," as though there were some followers of 
the Lotto gleam distinguished by possessing 
superstition as against others who have none. 
That was, of course, absurd, because all of them 
are superstitious. In the unceasing search for 
lucky numbers — for hints and suggestions — 
civilisation and nature are equally ransacked. 
Everything has numerical connotation, and espe- 
cially dreams. There is even a big book — 
usually kept in the kitchen, but frequently sent 
for to be consulted "upstairs" — which is alpha- 
betically arranged, giving all the dreams that a 
sensible Italian gambler is likely to have, with 
their corresponding numbers. Then there are 
lucky-number providers, such as Capuchin 
monks and hunchbacks. Many people when 
they go to be blessed by the Pope take a scheme 
of numbers with them, because when the Pope 
blesses you his blessing extends to all that you 
have upon you. Or so it is thought. Other 
persons find their inspiration in dates, such as 
the birthday of a lover; in the numbers of rail- 
way compartments and cabs; in hours and min- 
utes, such as the exact time at which they are 
happiest; in the ages of chance acquaintances; 
[40] 



The Eight Cities 

and, in short, in a thousand and one of the 
capricious ways that only gamblers know. 

To those who can afford it. Lotto is an amus- 
ing enough experience. To the poor I have no 
doubt it is a snare, but not a very perilous one. 
Watching the faces of the eager scanners of 
Saturday afternoon papers, I used sometimes to 
see some very dazed and forlorn expressions, 
but nothing really tragic. More unhappiness, I 
fancy, could be suffered during the week by the 
undecided from their doubts as to whether 
twenty-one was not wiser than twenty, than on 
Saturday, from missing the prize. Wherever 
bets are made, whether on thoroughbreds or on 
numbers, these unfortunates are to be found — 
the most anxious and joyless of all the votaries 
of excitement. 

Italy's passion for Lotto may not be more 
fierce than our own for betting on horses ; but it 
is more desirable, for, as I say, it has the merit 
of being open, and also the State profits by 
it, whereas our State, so long as it refuses to 
countenance the pari-mutuel system, gains, from 
racing, nothing. 

A sidelight on the universality of betting in 
puritanical England was mine the other day 
during a visit to the country. 

"What strange things words are!" said my 

[41] 



Giving and Receiving 

hostess as we strolled along the herbaceous 
border. 

"How do you mean?" I asked. 

"Well," she said, "I have a man and his wife 
to help here, and when work is slack the man is 
allowed to take any small j ob he can find. After 
breakfast this morning I put to the wife the 
most natural and, on the face of it, most un- 
ambiguous question in the world. I said, 'What 
is your husband doing to-day?' 

"It never occurred to me that there could be 
more than one way of taking such a form of 
words as that. But there is. For what do you 
think she replied? She said, 'I can't remember 
the name. Ma'am, but he wrote it on a piece of 
paper and told me to give it to the milkman and 
the grocer's boy. The three-thirty, he said. 
Each way.* " 



[42] 



A FORERUNNER OF D'ANNUNZIO 

D'ANNUNZIO is not the only liberator who 
entered Fiume. I was there myself in 
1889, in the same role, but with less ambition. 
Nor did I arrive in a motor car — it could not 
be done in those distant days — but in a tramp 
steamer. 

Fiume is a white and yellow town, built along 
the narrow strip of flat shore or clinging to the 
sides of the mountains. It is divided in interest 
between the sea and the soil, half the place be- 
ing concerned with shipping and the harbour, 
and the other half with vineyards. There is, 
however, a little interchange, for the peasants 
must descend the slopes in order to get their 
wine to the ships, while sailors who wish to re- 
turn thanks for safety during tempests, or to 
ensure a prosperous voyage, have to climb high 
above the town to a ledge on which the mariners' 
chapel is perched. Here, if they are thinking 
only of the future, they merely light a candle, 
but if they have had a narrow escape they de- 
posit a votive offering, which chiefly takes the 
form of a crude but vivid oil painting of a vessel 
under the direst difficulties, amid boiling indigo 

[43] 



Giving and Receiving 

waves, with her name intensely visible, while in 
one of the top corners, set in an oval effulgence, 
is the Virgin calmly surveying the storm and 
seeing that, in spite of the disturbance, all is 
well, or not too ill, with her faithful follower. 
Several artists in the town make a living by 
depicting these scenes. 

Outside the church sat (when I was there) 
an old woman who sold charms against the 
perils of the deep. Since I bought some, for 
myself, for the captain of our ship, for the 
mates and the engineers, and we came safely 
back to England, I know that they were all that 
she said of them. 

Our sliip was taking on raw Hungarian or 
Dalmatian wine (which, by and by, such is the 
iniquity of vintners, was to be unloaded at 
Bordeaux and transformed into genuine French 
claret), and during this process, with the mates 
left in charge, the captain and I made little ex- 
peditions. Just outside Fiume, to the north, is 
the Whitehead torpedo factory; and we went 
there. Then the road runs on up the coast to 
Abbazia, a fashionable watering-place, where the 
bathing is done within a space wired against the 
incursion of sharks; and we went there in a 
carriage and pair, and sat among Austrians eat- 
ing immoderately of veal. 

But it was too hot for much enterprise, and 
[44] 



A Forerunner of D'Annunzio 

for the most part we sat in the shade and sipped, 
and smoked long cigars with straws in them, or 
played a variety of billiards with no pockets 
and little ninepins in the middle of the table. 

And what of the liberation? Ah, yes, but it 
was so small a deed (compared with Gabriele's) 
that I was hoping you had forgotten about it. 
However, since it happened, and at Fiume, 
perhaps I had better tell. 

One afternoon, after walking a little way out 
of the town, we came to a retired cottage inn, 
with tables under its trees, and decided that to 
repose there would be a more delectable pro- 
ceeding than to adventure further. We therefore 
sank into chairs and ordered something to drink 
from a woman whose very forbidding appear- 
ance was the only discordant note. So haggish 
indeed was she that but for our lassitude and 
the pleasantness of the situation we should have 
hurried on. The wine, however, was refreshing, 
and the captain, who was a great performer on 
the monologue, resumed his narrative, either of 
a triumph of navigation or of love (his two 
themes), I forget which. But while he talked 
on, and the Adriatic, spreading itself as a mirror 
to the sun, increased the heat, my attention 
strayed and I became aware of a fluttering beat- 
ing noise near by and little distressful chirps, 
and I saw that, nailed to the cottage wall, by the 

[45] 



Giving and Receiving 

door, in the full sunlight, was a tiny wooden 
cage, such as is made for birds to be carried in, 
not to dwell in, and in it was a rebellious and 
very unhappy goldfinch. The poor thing flung 
itself from side to side of its narrow prison in 
a disorder which was rapidly becoming a frenzy. 

The woman emerging at this moment, I left 
my seat and made her look at the wretched 
captive; but she only laughed, and when I 
would have unhooked the cage to place it out 
of the sun she stopped me with a malignant 
gesture. 

Very well, there was nothing to be done but 
what D'Annunzio would have done. I had to 
employ craft and address. Waiting till the 
harridan was well within the house again, I 
advanced to the cage, opened it and watched 
the goldfinch dart out and fly thankfully away; 
and then we also took to our wings, the captain 
not with less fear than I, but unsustained by 
any of the moral enthusiasm which seemed to 
me my due. He had, however, to retire equally 
fast, the heat being forgotten in the necessity 
for escape from that terrifying monster the inn- 
keeper. 

When we considered it safe we sat by the 
roadside to rest, and there exchanged felicita- 
tions on the fortunate circumstance that we 
sailed the next day. I was rather hoping for a 
[46] 



A Forerunner of D'Annunzio 

cordial word or two about my courage and 
humanity; but none came. "Let me see," said 
the captain, "where was I when you interrupted 
me to interfere with that bird?" 



[47] 



THE EVOLUTION OF WHIMSICALITY 

THE title shall stand^ because I like it; but 
it does not say all. By whimsicality, I 
ought to explain, I mean, broadly, modern 
humour, as distinguished from that which we 
find before the end of the eighteenth century. 
It may comprise all the earlier forms, but it is 
different, perhaps in its very blending, and it 
has one ingredient which the older forms lacked, 
and which, like the onion in the bowl of salad, 
as celebrated by one of its masters — Sydney 
Smith — "animates the whole." I refer to its 
imreluctant egoism. It is this autobiographical 
quality that is its most noticeable characteristic 
— the author's side-long amused canonization of 
himself; his frankly shameless assumption that 
if a thing is interesting to the writer it must 
therefore be of interest to the world. And with 
the development of whimsicality (as I call it) 
are bound up also the development of slippered 
ease in literature and the stages by which we 
have all become funnier. To-day every one can 
grow the flower, with more or less success, for 
every one has the seed. 

Although the new humour comprises the old, 
[48] 



The Evolution of Whimsicality 

it has never reached its predecessor's heights in 
certain of its branches. Only in parody and 
nonsense have we gained. There has, for exam- 
ple, been no modern satire to equal Pope's and 
Dryden's and Swift's; no irony more biting 
than Swift's and Defoe's, or more delicate and 
ingratiating than Goldsmith's; no such cynical 
or grotesque humour as Shakespeare exults in; 
no rough-and-tumble buffoonery like Fielding's 
and Smollett's. In nonsense and in parody 
alone we have improved, the old days having 
nothing to offer to be compared with Lewis 
Carroll or Calverley ; but in burlesque we cannot 
compete with "The Rehearsal," "The Beggar's 
Opera," or "The Critic." 

But all those authors were impersonal. They 
suppressed themselves. We have no evidence as 
to whether Shakespeare was more like Falstaff 
or Prospero; probably he resembled both, but 
we cannot know. Goldsmith is the only auto- 
biographer among them, but even he always 
affected to be some one else; he had not the 
courage of the first person singular, and Steele 
and Addison, eminently fitted as they were to 
inaugurate the new era, clung to tradition and 
employed a stalking horse. Even Sterne only 
pretended to be himself, although whimsicality 
in the strictest meaning of the word undoubt- 
edly was his. 

[49] 



Giving and Receiving 

The period when whimsicality came in — the 
end of the eighteenth and beginning of the 
nineteenth century — was the period when a 
return to nature in poetry was in gestation; a 
movement beginning subconsciously with 
Cowper and Crabbe and finding its most elo- 
quent conscious prophets in Wordsworth and 
Coleridge, and its gospel in the preface to the 
second edition of the Lyrical Ballads in 1800. 
Coleridge and Wordsworth were the great wave. 
Beneath the impressive surface of the ocean 
which they crested, in the calm waters where 
letter writing is carried on (if I may be par- 
doned not the best of metaphors), the other 
development was in progress; correspondents 
were becoming more familiar. I would not 
allege that humour and the epistolary art were 
strangers until, say, 1780 — there is, indeed, 
very good evidence to the contrary — but it was 
somewhere about that time that a more conscious 
facetiousness crept in, and just as Wordsworth's 
revolutionary methods held the field and ousted 
the heightened conventional language of the 
eighteenth-century poets, so did this new and 
natural levity gain strength. Hitherto men had 
divided themselves strictly between their light 
and their grave moods. But now gradually 
these moods were allowed to mingle, and in 
course of time quite serious people let their 
[50] 



The Evolution of Wliimsicality 

pens frisk as merrily as the professional wags. 
It was left for Charles Lamb so to confuse 
deshabille and full dress that ever after him no 
author had any rigid need to keep them apart; 
but Lamb was not the fountain head. He had a 
predecessor; and we come to that predecessor, 
the real father of whimsicality, the first writer 
of our modern humorous prose, in a phrase in 
a letter of Lamb's on December 5, 1796 — thus 
keeping the chain intact. Writing to Coleridge, 
Lamb refers to Cowper's "divine chit-chat," and 
although that phrase no doubt applied to "Table 
Talk" and "The Task" and other poetical 
monologues, we may here borrow it to describe 
the ease and fun and unaffected egoism which 
in Cowper's letters are for the first time found 
in perfection in English literature. As early 
as 1778 he was writing like this (to William 
Unwin) : 

We are indebted to you for your political intelli- 
gence, but have it not in our power to pay you in 
kind. Proceed, however, to give us such information 
as cannot be learned from the newspapers: and when 
anything arises at Olney, that is not in the thread- 
bare style of daily occurrences, you shall hear of it 
in return. Nothing of this sort has happened lately, 
except that a lion was imported here at the fair, 
seventy years of age, and was as tame as a goose. 
Your mother and I saw him embrace his keeper with 
his paws, and lick his face. Others saw him receive 
his head in his mouth, and restore it to him again 

[51] 



Giving and Receiving 

unhurt — a sight we chose not to be favoured with, 
but rather advised the honest man to discontinue 
the practice — a practice hardly reconcilable to pru- 
dence, unless he had a head to spare. 

In 1779, again to William Unwin: 

I remember, — (the fourth and last thing I mean 
to remember on this occasion), that Sam Cox, the 
Counsel, walking by the seaside as if absorbed in 
deep contemplation, was questioned about what he was 
musing on. He replied, "I was wondering that such 
an almost infinite and unwieldy element should pro- 
duce a sprat." 

And again, concerning a man named Twopenny : 

It seems a trifle, but it is a real disadvantage to 
have no better name to pass by than the gentleman 
you mention. Whether we suppose him settled, and 
promoted in the army, the Church, or the law, how 
uncouth the sound — Captain Twopenny! Bishop 
Twopenny! Judge Twopenny! The abilities of Lord 
Mansfield would hardly impart a dignity to such a 
name. Should he perform deeds worthy of poetical 
panegyric, how difficult it would be to ennoble the 
sound of Twopenny! 

Muse ! place him high upon the lists of Fame, 
The wondrous man, and Twopenny his name ! 

But to be serious, if the French should land in the 
Isle of Thanet, and Mr. Twopenny should fall into 
their hands, he will have a fair opportunity to 
frenchify his name, and may call himself Monsieur 
Deux Sous; which, when he comes to be exchanged by 
Cartel, will easily resume an English form, and slide 
naturally into Two Shoes, in my mind a considerable 
improvement. 
[52] 



The Evolution of Whimsicality 

In 1780, with a copy of verses, to the same 
correspondent : 

I shall charge you a half penny apiece for every 
copy I send you, the short as well as the long. This 
is a sort of afterelap you little expected, but I cannot 
possibly afford them at a cheaper rate. If this method 
of raising money had occurred to me sooner, I should 
have made the bargain sooner; but am glad I have 
hit upon it at last. It will be a considerable en- 
couragement to my muse, and act as a powerful 
stimulus to my industry. If the American war should 
last much longer I may be obliged to raise my price. 

Such passages as these, limpid, imaffected, 
setting down daily trivialities as well and 
amusingly as was in the author's power, seem to 
me to mark the beginnings of much modern 
humour. There are hints of the same quality 
in Walpole and in Gray, but those writers are of 
their own time, and to us they are often archaic. 
Cowper was the first to handle the new prose, 
although he did not come out into the open with 
it. He was, publicly, a poet, and was read for 
his poetry. The innovating work that he had 
begun, if it was to prosper, needed a public 
writer to make it generally acceptable, and such 
was Charles Lamb. If Cowper was the father 
of whimsicality. Lamb was its chief popularizer. 

Lamb's great discovery was that he himself 
was better worth laying bare than obscuring: 
that his memories, his impressions, his loyalties, 

[53] 



Giving and Receiving 

his dislikes, his doubts, his beliefs, his preju- 
dices, his enthusiasms, in short, everything that 
was his, were suitable material for literature. 
Pope said that the proper study of mankind was 
man; Lamb amended this to — the proper study 
of each man is himself. If you know yourself 
and have confidence in your moods and general 
sagacity, a record is worth making. Addison 
and Steele had even better opportunities to be 
disclosing than Lamb: they had a daily paper, 
and could write every morning exactly what 
they liked, and often must have been so hard 
put to it for subjects that autobiography would 
seem to be the easy way; yet they were always 
inventing. The time for personal confidences 
had not come. But whether Lamb would have 
been as he is without these forerunners is a 
question. In so far as the modernity of his 
humour is concerned I think that he would, but 
no doubt his early contributions to The Re- 
flector, some ten years before Elia, were based 
on the old models. Years, however, before he 
wrote those (in 1811) for print, he had, for 
private friendly eyes only, penned such pas- 
sages in his letters as this (in April, 1800, to 
Coleridge) : 

You read us a dismal homily upon "Eealities!" 
We know, quite as well as you do, what are shadows 
and what are realities. You, for instance, when you 
[54] 



The Evolution of Whimsicality 

are over your fourth or fifth jorum, chirping about 
old school occurrences, are the best of realities. Shad- 
ows are cold, thin things, that have no warmth or 
grasp in them. Miss Wesley and her friend, and a 
tribe of authoresses that come after you here daily, 
and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are 
the shadows. You encouraged that mopsey. Miss 
Wesley, to dance after you, in the hope of having her 
nonsense put into a nonsensical Anthology. We have 
pretty well shaken her off, by that simple expedient 
of referring her to you; but there are more burrs in 
the wind. 

I came home t'other day from business, hungry as 
a hunter, to dinner, with nothing, I am sure, of the 
author hut hunger about me, and whom foimd I 
closeted with Mary but a friend of this Miss Wesley 
— one Miss Benj6, or Benjey — I don't know how she 
spells her name. I just came in time enough, I be- 
lieve, luckily, to prevent them from exchanging vows 
of eternal friendship. It seems she is one of your 
authoresses, that you first foster, and then upbraid 
us with. But I forgive you. "The rogue has given 
me potions to make me love him." Well ; go she 
would not, nor step a step over our threshold, till 
we had promised to come and drink tea with her 
next night. I had never seen her before, and could 
not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar. 

We went, however, not to be impolite. Her lodg- 
ings are up two pairs of stairs in East Street. Tea 
and cofTee, and macaroons — a kind of cake I much 
love. We sat down. Presently Miss Benje broke the 
silence, by declaring herself quite of a different opin- 
ion from D'Israeli, who supposes the differences of 
human intellect to be the mere effect of organization. 
She begged to know my opinion. I attempted to 
carry it off with a pun upon organ; but that went 
off very flat. She immediately conceived a very low 
opinion of my metaphysics; and turning round to 

[55] 



Giving and Receiving 

Mary, put some question to her in French — possibly 
having heard that neither Mary nor I understood 
French. The explanation that took place occasioned 
some embarrassment and much wondering. 

She then fell into an insulting conversation about 
the comparative genius and merits of all modern 
languages, and concluded with asserting that the 
Saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in Germany. 
From thence she passed into the subject of poetry; 
where I, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer 
only, humbly hoped I might now put in a word to 
some advantage, seeing that it was my own trade in 
a manner. But I was stopped by a round assertion 
that no good poetry had appeared since Dr. Johnson's 
time. It seems the Doctor has suppressed many 
hopeful geniuses that way by the severity of his 
critical strictures in his Lives of the Poets. I here 
ventured to question the fact, and was beginning to 
appeal to names, but I was assured "it was certainly 
the case." Then we discussed Miss More's book on 
education, which I had never read. . . . 

It being now nine o'clock, wine and macaroons 
were again served roiuid, and we parted, with a 
promise to go again next week and meet the Miss 
Porters, who, it seems, have heard much of Mr. 
Coleridge, and wish to meet its, because we are Ms 
friends. I have been preparing for the occasion. I 
crowd cotton in my ears. I read all the reviews and 
magazines of the past month against the dreadful 
meeting, and I hope by these means to cut a tolerable 
second-rate figure. 

I can find nothing quite like that, so humor- 
ous, and rapid, in any writer before Lamb. 
There is hardly an antiquated word in it. But 
what is more interesting about it is that no one 
hitherto would have thought the narration 
[56] 



The Evolution of Whimsicality 

worth while. That, perhaps, is the most sig- 
nificant thing. 

Another example from the same year, 1800, 
the account of Joseph Cottle (author of Alfred) 
being gradually wooed from his grief for his 
brother Amos Cottle's death, and I shall have 
quoted enough. 

I suppose you have heard of the death of Amoa 
Cottle. 

I paid a solemn visit of condolence to his brother, 
accompanied by George Dyer, of burlesque memory. 
I went, trembling to see poor Cottle so immediately 
upon the event. 

He was in black; and his yoimger brother was 
also in black. 

Everything wore an aspect suitable to the respect 
due to the freshly dead. For some time after our 
entrance nobody spoke till George modestly put in a 
question, whether Alfred was likely to sell. 

This was Lethe to Cottle, and his poor face, wet 
with tears, and his kind eye brightened up in a mo- 
ment. Now I felt it was my cue to speak. 

I had to thank him for a present of a magnificent 
copy, and had promised to send him my remarks, — 
the least thing I could do; so I ventured to suggest, 
that I perceived a considerable improvement he had 
made in his first book since the state in which he first 
read it to me. Joseph until now had sat with his 
knees cowering in by the fireplace, and with great 
diflSculty of body shifted the same round to the corner 
of a table where I was sitting, and first stationing 
one thigh over the other, which is his sedentary 
mood, and placidly fixing his benevolent face right 
against mine, waited my observations. 

At that moment it came strongly into my mind, 

[57] 



Giving and Receiving 

that I had got Uncle Toby before me, he looked so 
kind and good. 

I could not say an unkind thing of Alfred. So I 
set my memory to work to recollect what was the 
name of Alfred's Queen, and with some adroitness 
recalled the well-known sound to Cottle's ears of 
Alswitha. 

At that moment I could perceive that Cottle had 
forgot his brother was so lately become a blessed 
spirit." In the language of mathematicians, the 
author was as 9, the brother as 1. 

I felt my cue, and strong pity working at the root 
I went to work, and beslabbered Alfred with most 
imqualified praise, or only qualifying my praise by 
the occasional politic interposition of an exception 
taken against trivial faults, slips, and human imper- 
fections, which, by removing the appearance of insin- 
cerity, did but in truth heighten the relish. 

Perhaps I might have spared that refinement, for 
Joseph was in a humour to hope and believe all 
things. 

What I said was beautifully supported, cor- 
roborated and confirmed by the stupidity of his 
brother on my left hand, and by George on my right, 
who has an utter incapacity of comprehending that 
there can be anything bad in poetry. 

All poems are good poems to George; all men are 
fine geniuses. 

So, what with my actual memory, of which I made 
the most, and Cottle's own helping me oui>— for I 
had really forgotten a good deal of Alfred — I made 
shift to discuss the most essential part, entirely to 
the satisfaction of its author, who repeatedly declared 
that he loved nothing better than candid criticism. 
Was I a candid greyhound now for all this? or did 
I do right? I believe I did. The effect was luscious 
to my conscience. 

For all the rest of the evening Amos was no more 
[58] 



The Evolution of Whimsicality 

heard of, till George revived the subject by inquiring 
whether some account should not be drawn up by the 
friends of the deceased to be inserted in Phillips' 
Monthly Obituary ; adding, that Amos was estimable 
both for his head and heart, and would have made a 
fine poet if he had lived. 

To the expediency of this measure Cottle fully 
assented, but could not help adding that he always 
thought that the qualities of his brother's heart ex- 
ceeded those of his head. 

I believe his brother, when living, had formed pre- 
cisely the same idea of him; and I apprehend the 
world will assent to both judgments. 

One feels that the man who could be writing 
with such sureness and zest as that in the year 
1800 ought to have come to his Elia vein — 
1820' — sooner. But the clock always has to 
strike first. 

Puns in their absurd latter-day form also 
were coming in in the same decade that gave us 
the Lyrical Ballads. There had been puns be- 
fore — Shakespeare has manV;, and Swift and 
Doctor Sheridan rejoiced in exchanging them — 
but they were less light-hearted, more verbal; 
the pun with nonsense to it, such as we asso- 
ciate first with Lamb, is not earlier than he. 
In a magazine published in 1793 (when Lamb 
was eighteen) I find this fragment of history 
gravely set forth: "When the seamen on board 
the ship of Christopher Columbus came in sight 
of San Salvador they burst out into exuberant 

[59] 



Giving and Receiving 

mirth and jollity. 'The lads are in a merry 
key,' cried the commodore. America is now 
the name of half the globe." That is not at all 
like the eighteenth century, but the century that 
was to produce Hood and H. J. Byron and F. 
C. Burnand. 

Before Elia, no one writing for print had 
assumed that his own impressions of life, grave 
and gay, were a sufficient or even a suitable 
subject. Such self-analytical authors as there 
had been had selected and garnished according 
to the canons of taste of their time. Lamb came 
naturally to his task and fondled and exhibited 
his ego with all the ecstasy of a collector dis- 
playing bric-a-brac or first editions; and ever 
since then, acting upon his sanction, others have 
been doing it. But what has at the moment 
the most interest to me is that part of Lamb's 
legacy which embodies his freakish humour; 
it was his willingness to be naturally funny 
that has benefited so many heirs. I should say 
that his principal service to other writers lay 
in giving them, by his example, encouragement 
to be natural, to mix their comic fancies with 
their serious thoughts — as they are mixed in 
real life. The mingled thread, he showed, 
should never be divided. 

The influence of letters must not be stressed; 
for the examples from Lamb were written be- 
[60] 



The Evolution of Whimsicality 

fore he could have seen any of Cowper's corre- 
spondence, while none of Lamb's letters were 
made public until Talfourd's memoir of him in 
1837. But although Lamb could not be in- 
fluenced by Cowper's prose until 1804 — nor 
needed to be, then — he was stimulated by the 
"divine chit-chat" of his verse, which brought 
a happy egoism into general popularity. He 
then developed and simmered for a couple of 
decades, and the next great event in the evolu- 
tion of whimsicality was the outcome of those 
comparatively silent years, the Elia essays be- 
ginning in the London Magazine in 1820. 

Thus we have four notable years: 1782, 
Cowper's first Poems — "Table Talk," etc.; 
1785, The Task (with "John Gilpin"); 1804, 
new edition of Hayley's Life of Cowper, with 
correspondence added; 1820, Elia essays begin. 

I don't want to suggest any conscious deriva- 
tion from Lamb in modern writers. To begin 
with, no writer who is an imitator can be worth 
anything; but a writer can be both an individual 
and under influence. He can move on parallel 
lines with his predecessor, not intentionally, but 
through a similarity of outlook. It would be 
absurd, in spite of his own admission with re- 
gard to sedulous apishness, to say, for example, 
that Stevenson imitated Lamb; but what one 
may contend is that but for the new easy 

[61] 



Giving and Receiving 

familiar personal turn which Lamb gave to lit- 
erature, Stevenson's Inland Voyage and Travels 
with a Donkey might never have been written. 
Their derivation is more commonly given to 
Sterne's Sentimental Journey and, in so far as 
form goes, possibly with accuracy; but although 
the mould may be from Sterne, for the nature 
of the contents we are far more indebted to 
Lamb. Sterne was an affected piece, posturing 
and grimacing too often; but Lamb, who is 
always divulging, was above pretence, and the 
example which he set to writers coming after 
him was courage to be themselves, and to be all 
of themselves all the time. 

Meanwhile, during the period when Lamb was 
writing Addisonian exercises for The Reflector, 
and preparing to be himself and nothing but 
himself ever after, a little boy was born — the 
year was 1812, and the date February 7 — in an 
obscure house in an obscure part of Portsmouth. 
His father was a dockyard clerk, named John 
Dickens, and the little boy was christened 
Charles John Huffam, but the John and the 
Huffam quickly disappeared and Charles only 
remained. This boy, who was destined not only 
to delight the world into which he was projected, 
but to create a new world of his own, was, I am 
sure, fired by Lamb's example. I have seen 
somewhere, but cannot trace the reference, that 
[62] 



The Evolution of Whimsicality 

among Dickens's childish reading was Elia, 
which had begun in the London Magazine when 
he was eight. The other little Charles could 
thus have read, at the most impressionable age, 
the account of Ralph Bigod, the Micawberesque 
borrower of money, and of Jem White, who had 
such a glorious Dickensian way at the chimney 
sweeps' suppers. Even genius often has to be 
put in the right path. If it is admitted that 
Lamb influenced Dickens, then my point is 
firmly enough established, for Dickens was the 
first really comic writer that we have had, and 
his own influence must have been endless. Be- 
fore Dickens, no author had tried to be as 
funny as he could, or at any rate no author had 
done so with any acceptance. 

Cowper, then, and Lamb (with Walpole and 
Gray as less guilty accomplices) must be con- 
victed of the sweet offence of bringing whim- 
sicality into literature and making it all the 
easier for our own artists in that medium to 
make a living; in England, Mr. Beerbohm and 
Mr. Belloc and Mr. Chesterton and Sir James 
Barrie, and in America (to name two only) Mr. 
Oliver Herford and Mr. Christopher Morley. 



[68] 



POINTS OF INTEREST 

THE manager had seen to it that the party 
of young men, obviously being rich, at any 
rate for this night, had some of the best attend- 
ance in the restaurant. Several waiters had 
been told off specially to look after them, the 
least and busiest of whom was little more than a 
boy — a slender pale boy, who was Working 
very hard to give satisfaction. The cynic 
might think — and say, for cynics always say 
what they think — that this zeal was the result 
of his youth; but the cynic for once would be 
only partly right. The zeal also had sartorial 
springs, this eventful day being the first on 
which the boy had been promoted to full waiter- 
hood, and the first therefore on which he had 
ever worn a suit of evening dress; which by 
dint of hard saving his family had been able to 
obtain for him. Wearing a uniform of such 
dignity, and conscious that he was on the 
threshold of his career, he was trying hard to 
make good and hoping very fervently that he 
would get through without any grease drops or 
splashes to impair the freshness of his new and 
wonderful attire. 
[64] 



Points of Interest 

The party of young men, who had been at a 
very illustrious English school together and now 
were either at a university or in the world, were 
celebrating an annual event and were very 
merry about it. For the most part they had, 
between the past and the present, as many 
topics of conversation as were needed, but now 
and then came a lull, during which some of them 
would look around at the other tables, note the 
prettier of the girls or the odder of the men 
and comment upon them ; and it chanced that in 
such a pause one of the diners happened for 
the first time to notice with any attention the 
assiduous young waiter. Although not old 
enough to have given any thought to the oddity 
of youth attending upon youth at its meals in 
this way — not old enough indeed to have pon- 
dered at all upon the relations of Capital and 
Labour, or of the domineering and the servile-— 
he had reflected a good deal upon the cut and fit 
of clothes, and there was something about the 
waiting-boy's evening coat that outraged his 
critical sense. Nor did the fact that the other's 
indifferent tailoring throw the perfection of his 
own into such brilliant contrast (the similarity 
between the livery of service and the male cos- 
tume de luxe fostering these comparisons) make 
him any more lenient. 

"Did you ever see/' he asked his neighbour, 

[651 



Giving and Receiving 

"such a coat-collar as that waiting Johnnie's? 
I ask you. How can any one^ even a waiter, 
wear a thing like that? Don't they ever see 
themselves in the glass, or if they do can't they 
see straight? Why, it covers his collar alto- 
gether." 

His companion agreed. 

"And the shoulders !" he went on. "You'd 
have thought that in a restaurant like this the 
management would be more particular. By 
George, that's a jolly pretty girl coming in! 
Look — over there, just under the clock, with the 
red hair." And the waiter was forgotten. 

Forgotten, however, only by his table critics, 
for at that moment a little woman, who had 
made friends with the hall-porter for this ex- 
press purpose, was peering through the window 
of the entrance, searching the room for her son. 
She had never yet seen him at his work at all, 
and certainly not in his grand and glorious new 
waiting clothes, and naturally she wanted to. 
"Ah!" she said at last, pointing the boy out 
to the porter, "there he is ! over there where all 
those young gentlemen are. Doesn't he look 
fine? And don't they fit him beautifully? 
Why, no one would know the diflference if he 
were to sit down at the table and one of those 
young gentlemen was to wait on him." 

[66] 



A SIGNPOST 

POSSIBLY from lack of time to devote to 
long bouts of readings I have a growing 
fondness for reflections and sententiae, before 
the wisdom of whose authors I am usually aston- 
ished and abashed. My latest discovery in this 
branch of literature is Lacon; or. Many Things 
in Few Words, by the Rev, C. C. Colton, and 
were the readers of aphorisms ever influenced by 
them^ I should already be profoundly sensible 
and too good to live. 

The author of Lacon had watched the world 
with closeness, and had brought an uncom- 
promising and slightly scornful mind to bear 
upon what he saw. The result is a detached 
and mordant commentary on men and affairs, 
varied by counsels of perfection. In the inter- 
ests of space I quote only from the briefer com- 
ments, but the longer are remarkable too, 
shrewdly thought and lucidly expressed: 

He that likes a hot dinner, a warm welcome, new 
ideas, and old wine will not often dine with the great. 

If you would be known, and not know, vegetate in 
a village ; if you would know, and not be known, live 
in a city. 

[67] 



Giving and Receiving 

There is this difference between happiness and 
wisdom; he that thinks himself the happiest man 
really is so, but he that thinks himself the wisest is 
generally the greatest fool. 

Were the life of man prolonged he would become 
such a proficient in villainy that it would be necessary 
again to drown or burn the world. 

Hurry and Cunning are the two apprentices of 
Despatch and Skill, but neither of them ever learned 
their masters' trade. 

Some reputed saints that have been canonized ought 
to have been cannonaded, and some reputed sinners 
that have been cannonaded ought to have been canon- 
ized. 

Of all tlie marvellous works of the Deity, pejhaps 
there is nothing that angels behold with such su- 
preme astonishment as a proud man. 

The good people of England do all that in them 
lies to make their king a puppet; and then, with their 
usual consistency, detest him if he is not what they 
would make him and despise him if he is. 

By the way, I wonder if any other country 
has within her own borders such candid critics 
as England can ever boast. It is almost as 
much a point of honour in an Englishman to 
find his country imperfect as for a Scotchman 
to find perfection in his. Again, of England 
and her King: 

A king of England has an interest in preserving 
the freedom of the Press, because it is his interest to 
know the true state of the nation, which the courtiers 
would fain conceal, but of which a free Press alone 
can inform him. 
[68] 



A Signpost 

And this of kings generally : 

If kings would only determine not to extend their 
dominions until they had filled them with happiness, 
they would find the smallest territories too large, but 
the longest life too short, for the full accomplishment 
of so grand and so noble an ambition. 

It must be great fun to write aphorisms, 
although there cannot be much money in it — 
until editors adopt generally the practice of 
that famous Frenchman who paid twice as much 
for half-a-column as for a column, twice as 
much for a quarter of a column as for a half, 
and most of all for a good paragraph. But 
apart from money, which has nothing to do with 
the pleasures of craftsmanship, it must be great 
fun to write aphorisms, because one has all the 
satisfaction and excitem'ent of fitting the words 
into the right place, having plenty of time to do 
it in (since only the unhasty are aphoristic), 
while one knows also the content that comes 
from scoring off poor humanity, one's constant 
butt. Were men and women not fallible, the 
aphorist would disappear. As it is, he comes 
out as the single notable exception. 

But physicians have been known to fail as 
their own patients. Having read much in 
Lacon, I had the curiosity to turn up its author's 
career in The Dictionary of National Biography 
and there I found strange matter. Who the 

[69] 



Giving and Receiving 

first parson was to adjure his flock "to do as he 
said and not as he did" I am unaware, but it 
might well have been the Rev. Charles Caleb 
Colton. Born in 1780 and educated at Eton 
and King's, he became rector of Prior's Portion, 
Tiverton, at the age of twenty-one, and took 
seriously to angling. After neglecting his parish 
for many years in favour of satirical verse and 
sport, he was given the living of Kew and 
Petersham, but preferred to dress as a soldier 
and reside in squalid London lodgings, accom- 
panied by old books and fishing rods. He also 
added to his cure of souls the business of a wine 
merchant, but did not prosper in it. 

In 1820 the first part of Lacon was published, 
and in 1822 the second, and both were popular. 
Meanwhile, however, while their cool sagacity 
was being eagerly studied, their author was 
losing at the gaming-tables all that he possessed. 
England becoming too hot for him, he resided 
in America and in France, and in 1832 com- 
mitted suicide at Fontainebleau at the age of 
fifty-two. 

On one of the pages of Lacon I find this: 

Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but 
not always, for cowardice sometimes prevents it, 
since many live because they are afraid to die. 

I should not be surprised to learn that Col- 
ton's suicide had an element of courage in it. 
[70] 



BREGUET 

REFLECTIVE writers have remarked upon 
the curious circumstance that having met 
with a new word one then hears it continually. 
Not only is it true of words, but also of ideas 
and people. It was so with me and Breguet. 
I had lived for many years on this perplexing 
globe, not uninterested in a variety of things, 
before the name of the distinguished French- 
man ever fell upon my ear. Then came an 
evening, a year ago, when after dinner several 
of us compared watches. And my neighbour 
(a famous builder of palaces) placed in my 
hand a delicate neutral-tinted time-piece, slen- 
der and shy, with a small dial within the large 
one: a symphony in grey, silver and old gold. 
It made all the modern horological achievements 
which we others possessed look either very 
common or very assertive. 

"What a lovely thing!" I said. 

"It's a Breguet," said he. 

"Breguet?" 

"Yes, the great French watch-maker. It's 
well over a hundred years old. A repeater 
too" — and he touched a spring and we listened 
to its gentle tinkle. 

[71] 



Giving and Receiving 

It was builtj he told us, for one of the British 
ambassadors in Paris. 

There is no need for me to say that, rare as 
Breguets are, the very next day, sitting at lunch 
with an old friend, I discovered that he Sad a 
Breguet too: also historic, for it claimed to be 
the first stem-winder; and this too had the 
slimness that most people think is a recent in- 
vention, and this also was of a grave smoky 
beauty. And then another friend told me that 
his father used to collect Breguets and he him- 
self had one but did not carry it: he kept it, 
in fact, at the Bank. 

By this time I was an enthusiast, while a 
deep distaste for my own watch gradually pos- 
sessed me. And then I heard of a Breguet 
for sale. . . . 

Let, here, a veil be drawn. 

Meanwhile, although I did not know it, the 
printers of an English provincial paper were 
hard at work on a limited edition of a mono- 
graph on the great watch-maker by Sir David 
Salomons, who has been amassing examples of 
Breguet's skill for years, and a copy of this 
book — with the simple title Breguet — is now at 
my side, packed with photographs of every type 
of Breguet watch and telling of their creator 
all there is to know: such as, that the original 
Breguet, Louis Abraham or Abraham Louis, was 
[72] 



Breguet 

born at Neuchatel in Switzerland in 1747, and 
at the age of fifteen was apprenticed to a watch- 
maker at Versailles, in 1762. In the evenings 
he learned mathematics at the College Mazarin. 
A dim period followed, but in or about 1769 
the young man is found established in business, 
among his customers being the King and Queen 
and Court. Watches that he made for Louis 
XVII and Marie Antoinette are in Sir David 
Salomons' collection. 

Early in the Revolution, Breguet, who was a 
bit of a Sans Culotte, was instrumental in help- 
ing Marat to escape from an awkward situation, 
and Marat rewarded him by getting him a "safe 
pass" across the Channel in 1793- He was in 
England for two years, working partly for 
George III, and assisted by the pocket-book 
stuffed with bank-notes with which a French 
friend in London generously provided him. 
Returning to Paris, purged of Sansculottism, he 
found that his factory had been destroyed; but 
from the ruins sprang a finer, and for nearly 
thirty years he presided over it and saw that 
nothing that was not perfect was allowed to 
pass from it into any fob. His workmen were 
the best to be obtained, and Breguet had the 
pleasant and stimulating habit, when they pre- 
sented their accounts, of adding a tail to the 
final of the amount and thus awarding a nine- 

[73] 



Giving and Receiving 

franc prize for merit. It was perhaps not purely 
kind-heartedness, but a necessary piece of tac- 
tics, for during Breguet's absence some of his 
assistants had set up in rivalry, and were imitat- 
ing his methods too closely — ^but never so closely 
as really to take in the connoisseur. Even at 
this day there is something about the early 
Breguet watches that is inimitable. For one 
thing, the secret of the amalgam that he put 
into the silver of his watch-faces was never dis- 
covered: but, more important still, there is 
genius. Breguet was as much an independent 
genius as, say, Corot, and his watches are as 
full of personality as Corot's landscapes. 

In 1807, Breguet took his son Louis Antoine 
into partnership and the watches were then often 
signed "Breguet et Fils." Breguet the elder 
died in 1823, and in 1833, when Louis Antoine 
retired, his son Louis Clement Fran9ois suc- 
ceeded. The last of the Breguets was Louis 
Antoine, who died in 1882, and with him the 
great days of the firm passed. This last Bre- 
guet was a mechanic of genius who is believed 
to have worked for Graham Bell on the first 
telephones. A Rue de Breguet preserves the 
original Breguet's fame. It is near the Quai 
de I'Horloge, where, at 51, Breguet's first known 
shop stood. Later he moved to the Rue de la 
Paix. The business, which now belongs to 
[74] 



Breguet 

Monsieur Henry Brown, is carried on to-day at 
2, Rue Edouard VII and all the old records 
may be consulted there. If you are so fortu- 
nate as to own an original Breguet watch and 
let M. Brown know the number, he will tell 
you its history. I was talking with him only 
the other day. . . . 

After returning to Paris, Breguet became 
watch-maker to Napoleon and to the (other 
Buonapartes, while in England his fame was 
bright. George III went to Breguet for the 
time of day and so did the Prince Regent. The 
Duke of Wellington gave three thousand guineas 
for a Breguet and always wore it. In fact it 
was bad form for many years to learn the hour 
from any but a Breguet watch. And no wonder, 
for, as Sir David says, "To carry a fine Breguet 
watch is to feel that you have the brains of a 
genius in your pocket." If it were so then, 
when the supply was comparatively ample, what 
must the feeling be now, when the great Breguet 
is dust and only by good fortune can an example 
of his work be lighted upon? Surely at this 
day those few who are privileged to learn how 
late it is wjth the assistance of one of these 
silver-faced monitors, under a velvety glass, 
may be said to constitute a separate order of 
aristocracy? At least, we think so. 

[75] 



THE TAIL AND THE SOUVENIRS 

OBSERVANT Londoners, asked to name 
the most poignant visual loss inflicted 
upon them by the War, might differ; but I have 
no doubt whatever that a majority would agree 
as to the privation caused them by the wooden 
huts which for too long a time occupied the St. 
James's Park lake and shut out the evening 
view of the enchanted gables and towers and 
spires of Whitehall Court. That, on the grand 
scale. On a lower plane I personally should 
name the obliteration of a certain landmark in 
the same saint's adjacent square — the efface- 
ment being caused by the Washington Inn, 
which for three or four years surrounded and 
absorbed it. 

But it now waves as proudly and assertively 
as ever — the tail of the King William's bronze 
charger. 

It is not an ordinary tail, it is a tail beyond 
all tails and it was grievous to lose it. "You 
once," wrote (to Macready) Charles Dickens, 
wishing to cut a swell figure at a wedding in 
borrowed plumes, "you once gave the world 
assurance of a waistcoat." Similarly this steed 
[76] 



The Tail and the Souvenirs 

bestridden by the Anglo-Batavian monarch 
gives the world assurance of a caudal append- 
age. For never was such a tail. It springs 
vehemently like a pennon from the creature's 
stern, due south, and then droops voluptuously 
away. You see the steed, royal rider, and the 
superb additament, in profile, all the way be- 
fore you as you walk from the Haymarket west- 
wards, along the street where people wait so 
long and patiently in queues for the privilege 
of seeing Mr. Oscar Asche in (practically) the 
buff. 

On looking into history I find that this mag- 
nificent tail — the creation of the sculptor John 
Bacon the younger — has graced the square ever 
since 1808. I find also that there was once 
water in the middle of the square, with pleasure 
boats upon it, and that it was into this lake 
that the Gordon Rioters in 1780 flung the key 
of Newgate Prison. A century earlier the 
square was a duelling ground, while as recently 
as 1773 a highwayman held up Sir Francis 
Holburne and his sisters in their coach as they 
passed through on their way from the opera, 
and pressing his •pistol to Miss Holburne's 
breast demanded her purse. 

During the War the collecting of relics was a 
very popular hobby and no family any longer 
respected itself unless it had a projectile as a 

[77] 



Giving and Receiving 

door-stop, a paper-knife made of the copper 
binding of a shell-case flattened out and shaped, 
and a cartridge pencil. To what extent these 
treasures are now valued I cannot say; I refer 
to them merely as prefatory matter to No. 2, 
St. James's Square, where Admiral Edward Bos- 
cawen once resided, and to draw attention to 
the kind of war souvenir that that sea ravener 
affected. For whereas we were, so to speak, 
retail in our acquisitiveness, he was wholesale. 
Where we were content with ammunition, he 
demanded the guns themselves, five of which, 
from the battle of Finisterre in 1747, may still 
be seen in a row before his house. From two 
of them sprout lamp posts. 

One may pass No. 2 a thousand times, on 
one's way to call on the Bishop of London or 
lunch at the Sports Club or change a book 
at the London Library, and never give a 
thought to these five half-buried pieces of heavy 
ordnance; but that is their history, and their 
captor (under Anson) was this same "Wry- 
necked Dick" or "Old Dreadnought," as the 
Admiral was called, y^o brought back with him 
not only the Frenchman's guns but also a wound 
in his shoulder. 

His seems to me a very thorough way of mak- 
ing war: first to defeat your foe and then to 
adapt his artillery to your own domestic pur- 
[78] 



The Tail and the Souvenirs 

poses. It is also almost scripturally pacific. A 
sword becomes a ploughshare with less ease than 
a cannon becomes the socket for a gas standard^ 
as any one can see for himself by visiting No. 2, 
St. James's Square. 

The admiral who resided behind this strange 
palisade was perhaps rather a fortunate than a 
great sailor; he was never a commander of such 
genius that his supersession in the middle of a 
war was inevitable; but he had a victory or so 
to his name^ in particular the defeat of De la 
Clue — largely the result of a short way with 
treaties — in Lagos Bay in 1759, and he was 
able to build himself a country mansion at 
Hatchlands Park in Surrey "at the expense of 
the enemies of his country," which must always 
be a pleasant thing for a fighting man to do. 

But his memory is chiefly prized in the Navy 
for his efforts to make it a more civilized service 
than he found it. Many of the hygienic pre- 
cautions and comforts of crews to-day originated 
in the humane activity of "Wry-necked Dick," 
a name deriving from his habit of carrying his 
head on one side, or "Old Dreadnought/' a 
title which seems to have been conferred, when 
he was still young, in honour of his reply, one 
night, when he was awakened by an officer with 
the question, "Sir, there are two large ships 
which look like Frenchmen bearing down on us, 

[79] 



Giving and Receiving 

what are we to do?" "Do?" said Boscawen, 
"damn them, fight them!" One is warned, 
however, that this story, since it stops short at 
that point, may be apocryphal, no engagement 
being on record. But the five half-buried can- 
non in front of No. 2, St. James's Square, are 
real enough. 

I find also that in St. James's Square many 
illustrious men have dwelt, one house (No. 10) 
having in its day sheltered three Prime Minis- 
ters — Pitt, Derby, and Gladstone; but not, as 
the old lady reading the tablet wondered, all at 
once. But what are three Prime Ministers in 
one house compared with the tail of the horse 
of William III ? That, as I hold, is the square's 
chief distinction. 



[80] 



THE BLUE RURITANIA 

A STORY IN DOCUMENTS 

Nancy Grinlay to her brother John Grinlay, 
B.A., a master at St. Austell's School at 
Eastbourne 

DEAREST JACK,— The doctors have been 
and have gone again, and their verdict is 
that Dad must not on any account spend this 
winter in England. It is what we expected, 
but that does not make the problem of how to 
pay for a home in a warm climate any simpler. 
Sir Reston Chaynge wants Algeciras, and Dad 
would like that, too; but how can it be managed 
without borrowing? What do you say? 

Your loving 

Nan 
John Grinlay to his sister 
Dearest Nan, — We must not let anything 
stand in the way of Dad's recovery; but we'll 
keep off borrowing as long as possible. I will 
set my wits to work and try and devise a plan 
to make a little money. Meanwhile, you should 
go to Cook's and find out about the probable 

[81] 



Giving and Receiving 

expense of the journey and the hotel, etc. I 
shan't be happy until he is safely there, under 
the sun. 

Yours, 

Jack 

John Grirday to the Editor of "The Friday 
Review." (One of many similar letters) 
Dear Sir, — I am sending you a selection of 
essays and verses, some at any rate of which I 
hope you may find suitable for your columns. 
If nothing among them should be of any use, 
perhaps you may like my style sufficiently to 
commission an article? 

I am. 

Yours faithfully, 

John Grinlay, B.A. 

The Editor of "The Friday Review" to John 
Grinlay Esq., B.A. (One of many similar 
letters) 
The Editor of The Friday Review presents 
his compliments to Mr. Grinlay and regrets that 
he can find no place for the enclosed contribu- 
tions. He would point out that a stamped en- 
velope should accompany all unsolicited MSS. 

John Grinlay to his sister 
Dearest Nan, — No luck yet; but are we 
[82] 



The Blue Ruritania 

downhearted? No. We still won't think about 
borrowing until I have tried various other 
means. 

Yours, 

Jack 

From "The Evening Dawn" 

SENSATIONAL CUP FINISH 

ANOTHER OUTSIDER WINS 

S3 TO 1 CHANCE 

Another upset for the knowing ones has to be 
recorded on the tablets of Turf history. Not a 
single authority gave Stumer for the Beaufort 
Cup to-day, yet the son of Burin and Banksia 
romped in with the greatest ease at the very 
useful price of 83 to 1. Talk about winter's 
keep ! The lucky ones who were on him, among 
whom I am told was that excellent High Court 
judge and judge of racing, Lord Westinghouse, 
will have made their keep not only for this 
winter but for next summer too. Now that it 
is all over and it is easy to be wise about it, 
there are reasons enough why Stumer should 
have won, remembering his excellent effort at 
Sandown in the summer, when he ran second 
to the lightly weighted Boiler Plate . . . etc., 
etc. 

J83l 



Giving and Receiving 

Nancy Grinlay to her brother John 
Dear Jack, — I have got all the figures now. 
For Dad and me — and of course he can't be 
alone or I would willingly save my part of the 
expense by staying here and getting a job — it 
can't be done, from December to April, under 
£l40. That is just travelling and pension, 
leaving nothing for odd, unexpected things — a 
doctor, say, medicine, wine, drives, and so forth. 
It's a lot; but we have got to do it. Possibly 
we might find a tenant for our rooms .^ 

Yours, 

Nan- 

John Grinlay to his friend Henry Thurston 
Dear Old Man, — I see there's a filly running 
at Derby to-morrow called Salubrity by Anchor 
out of Winter Sunshine. I want you to put 
the enclosed fiver on her, because it seems to 
me a heaven-sent tip. You see, my poor old 
Governor has been ordered south for the cold 
weather, and we naturally want him to get all 
right again, and there you have the whole thing. 
Our hope (Anchor) is that through Winter Sun- 
shine at Algeciras he may recover his health 
(Salubrity). You must know some one who 
bets and who will do this for me. I have never 
backed a horse in my life before, but this looks 
good enough and the money for the Governor's 
[84] 



The Blue Ruritania 

trip has got to be found somewhere. Why not 
let the bookies provide it? 

Yours, 

Jack 

From "The Evening Dawn" 
Also ran: Salubrity. 

Henry Thurston to John Grinlay 
My dear Ass, — Here is your fiver. I did not 
put it on, and you will doubtless be as glad as 
I am, now that you have seen the result. That 
is neither the way to select a winner nor to raise 
money for paternal jaunts. 

Yours, 

H. 

The Editor of "The Weekly Post" to John Grin- 
lay, Esq., B.A. (One of many similar 
letters) 
The Editor of The Weekly Post thanks Mr. 
John Grinlay for his contribution, but is unable 
to find room for it and therefore returns it. 

From "The Daily Reveille" 
•Our "Security-Tip" again, turned up yester- 
day, for the fifth time in succession, and those 
of my readers who do me the honour to follow 
me must be very happy. Any one risking a 

[85] 



Giving and Receiving 

fiver both ways each day since the flat season 
eonamenced is now £93 7*. 6d. in pocket. 

John Grinlay to Henry Thurston 
My dear Harry, — Your caution was useful 
and I am grateful to you for exercising it. All 
the same, I am quite sure that there is money 
to be made on the Turf if one only keeps one's 
head and studies form. As I have simply got 
to raise a certain sum quickly, I am going to 
have a flutter, and shall be glad if you will tell 
me of a decent firm to bet with. If you don't 
know yourself, any one at your club will tell 
you. The Daily Reveille's racing man has been 
having a wonderful run of luck lately, and I 
shall probably follow him. After all, he is paid 
to know his subject and has been carefully 
picked by his editor. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Henry Thurston to John Grinlay 
My dear Jack, — Don't be a fool. Betting is 
a mug's game, even when one can afford to 
lose, which you cannot. Besides, schoolmasters 
mustn't gamble. And you must remember that 
form is at the mercy of all kinds of conditions 
and accidents, of which the racing journalist 
too often knows little and the great public 
nothing. The very fact that the men who study 
[86] 



The Blue Ruritania 

it also want tips is a proof of its uncertainty. 

I dropped out of the way of getting tips years 
ago, and when I got them they were rarely any 
good. 

Most of the Turf commission-agents who 
advertise are probably straight enough. They 
will all be equally glad to let you maintain their 
women and children. But I wish you would be 
sensible and keep off it. 

Yours, 
Henry 

John Grinlay to Henry Thurston 
Dear Harry, — Your letter doesn't absolutely 
convince me. I am aware, of course, that the 
odds are against the backer, but form does 
mean something in the long run, even though it 
is often upset; and, after all, one horse in each 
race must come in first. I am not likely to 
become a regular gambler, but just at the mo- 
ment I mean to try my luck. 

Yours, 

Jack 

John Grinlay to Messrs. Angle & Webb, 

Turf Accountants 
Dear Sirs, — I should like to open an account 
with you. I enclose references. 

Yours faithfully, 

John Grinlay 
[87] 



Giving and Receiving 

Messrs. Angle & Webb to John Grinlay, Esq. 
Dear Sir^ — We have pleasure in adding your 
name to our list of clients. We enclose our 
book of rules, which include a telegraphic code^ 
and we have registered your nom de plume for 
betting purposes as "Sanguine." 

We are. 
Yours faithfully, 

Angle & Webb 



From "The Daily Reveille" 
TO-DAY'S SECURITY-TIP 

Tantivy. Each way 



Telegram from John Grinlay to Messrs. Angle 
& Webb 

Tantivy spot lantern Sanguine. 

(Decoded, this means "£,5 each way on 
Tantivy. John Grinlay.") 

From "The Evening Dawn" 
Also ran: Tantivy. 

From "The Daily Reveille" 
High among the November Cup probables for 
the careful investor to keep an eye on is Tor- 
toise. This speedy son of Excursion Train and 
[88] 



The Blue Ruritania 

Crustacean looked a picture when I saw him in 
his gallop yesterday morning. I should advise 
a liberal investment each way, with perhaps 
more for a place than to win. Tom Helix, 
Tortoise's trainer, has the deepest confidence in 
the colt. 

John Grinlay to his sister Nancy 
My dear Nan, — I have no good news yet, but 
I am hoping for a substantial cheque at the end 
of the week. I am doing a little investing. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Telegram from John Grinlay to Messrs, Angle 

& Webb 

Tortoise ring stretcher knock 

ambulance Sanguine. 

(Decoded, this means, "£30 on Tortoise to 

win and £70 for a place.") 

From "The Evening Dawn" 
Also ran: Tortoise. 

John Grinlay to Henry Thurston 

Dear Old Man, — Peccavi ! I wish I had 

taken your advice, for I am now badly down. 

No doubt a winner at a big price awaits me, but 

I have lost my nerve. Not only have I no luck 

[89] 



Giving and Receiving 

myself, but I have brought bad luck to others. 
The Reveille man hasn't had one "Security" 
winner since I began to follow him! 

The point now is, can you lend me £200? 
Any interest you like. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Henri/ Thurston to John Grinlay 
My dear Jack, — I am very sorry, but you 
have hit upon my worst time. Not only have I 
no spare money at all, but I also am in debt, 
although not through gambling. I am fright- 
fully sorry. 

Yours, 

H. 

Ronald Maherley, at school at St. Austell's, to 
Mr. Thomas Blissett, merchant, an old 
friend of the family 
Dear Uncle Tom, — Can you send me some 
foreign stamps? Most of the fellows here col- 
lect them, and I should like to. I expect you 
have lots of letters from abroad. I kicked a 
goat yesterday. Chemistry is awful fun. 
Yours affectionately, 

Ronald 

Mr. Thomas Blissett to Ronald Maherley 
My dear Ronald, — In re foreign stamps. I 
[90] 



The Blue Ruritania 

find that all our envelopes are thrown away. 
But it chances that a little while ago I received 
from abroad the effects of an old friend who 
died last year in Burma, and who left all his 
little property to me, having no one else to 
leave it to. Among the things is the accom- 
panying stamp-album, which I am sending on 
to you hoping that it will form the nucleus (see 
dictionary) of a collection. I will tell my 
clerk in future to tear all stamps off foreign 
letters and keep them for you. I should like 
you to preserve the album intact and merely add 
to it from time to time. 

As a subscriber to the R.S.P.C.A. I have to 
express my regret that you kicked a goat. We 
should be merciful to poor dumb animals. 
Yours sincerely, 

"Uncle Tom" 

Messrs. Angle & Webb to John Grinlay 
Dear Sir, — We must again remind you that 
the sum of £l55 is still due to us. Our rules are 
that settlements must be made every Monday, 
and this amount has been owing for some time. 
Unless you can let us have a cheque by the first 
of the month we shall be forced to take steps. 

We are, 
Yours faithfully, 

Angle & Webb 
[91] 



Giving and Receiving 

Ronald Maherley to Mr. Thomas Bliss ett 
Dear Uncle Tom, — Thanks awfully. The 
album looks ripping. We are to have a half- 
holiday to-morrow because the Head's wife has 
another baby. It is a pity none of the other 
masters are married. I am sorry my writing is 
so rotten. I didn't mean I had kicked a goat, 
but a goal. I must have crossed the I by 
mistake. 

Yours affectionately, 

Ronald 



John Grinlay to Henry Thurston 
Dear Harry, — There is no one to turn to but 
you. I owe those bookies £l55 and they're 
cutting up rough. If it were known here I 
should get the boot at once. If you can't help 
me yourself, can you find me a firm of money- 
lenders ? 

Yours in despair. 

Jack 



Henry Thurston to John Grinlay 

Dear Jack, — I don't know what to advise. 

It's 1,000 to 1 against any of those note-of- 

hand-loans-to-any-amount Johnnies lending 

money to a junior master in a private school. 

[92] 



The Blue Ruritania 

When the time comes they want security, and 
what can you give? 

Yours, 

H. 

Ronald Maherley to Mr. Thomas Blissett 
Dear Uncle Tom, — One of the masters here, 
Mr. Grinlay, wants to buy the stamp-album, but 
I told him I must ask you first. He seems aw- 
fully keen on it. He might give a pound, I 
expect or even more, and that would buy 
several things I want, and get me out of debt 
to a boy who sold me his fountain pen. I owe 
two shillings for tuck too. I know you hate 
people being in debt. Besides, I don't believe 
I shall ever be able to get a really good collec- 
tion of stamps. 

Yours affectionately, 

Ronald 

John Grinlay to Messrs. Angle & Webb 
Dear Sirs, — I hope you will give me another 
fortnight. I have the prospect of receiving 
quite a large sum of money in a few days' time, 
when you shall instantly be paid in full. It 
could do yourselves no good to take what you 
call steps, because they would only reduce my 
chances of repayment. If I have not paid it 
has been because there is no money, not be- 

[93] 



Giving and Receiving 

cause I was trying to evade it. I enclose a cheque 
for £5 on account, and am. 

Yours faithfully, 

J. Grinlay 

Ronald Maherley to Mr, Thomas Blissett 
Dear Uncle Tom, — I have told Mr. Grinlay 
what Tou said, and he is very disappointed. 
Would you mind very much if I let him have 
just one stamp for his collection? He is very 
keen, and he says that it would make up a set. 
As he has been collecting for so long, and I am 
just beginning, I don't like to refuse. Besides, 
he is awfully decent to me, and yesterday got 
me let ofiF an imposition. But I don't want to 
do anything against your wishes. All the other 
boys are always swapping stamps. 

Yours affectionately, 
Ronald 

John Grinlay to Mr. Bennett, Dealer in Postage 
Stamps 
Dear Sir, — Please let me know what you 
would give for a blue Ruritania in perfect con- 
dition. I must have some kind of estimate at 
once; otherwise I shall offer it elsewhere. I 
am giving you the first chance. 

Yours faithfully, 

J. Grinlay 
[94] 



The Blue Rui'itania 

Mr. Bennett to J. Grinlay, Esq., B.A. 
Dear Sir, — I should have to see the specimen 
before I made an offer, but if it were in perfect 
condition it would be worth to me somewhere 
about £300. 

I am. 
Yours faithfully, 

W. S. Bennett 

Thomas Blissett to Ronald Maberley 
My dear Ronald, — I don't want you to sell 
anything in that collection. It belonged to a 
great friend of mine, and I passed it on to you 
to keep, not to part with or break up. If you 
have lost interest in stamps return it to me. 

I enclose two ten-shilling notes for your lia- 
bilities. Not only do I disapprove of your 
being in debt, but even more of your getting 
into it. The only thing to do if you cannot 
afford a thing you want is to — do without. 
Yours sincerely, 

"Uncle Tom" 

Dr. Severus, Head Master of St. Austell's, to 
Claude Maberley, Esq. 
Dear Mr. Maberley, — I am writing to you 
concerning a rather curious case that has arisen. 
As I passed this evening on my rounds among 
the boys, during their after-supper recreation 

[95] 



Giving and Receiving 

hour, as is my custom, I was interested to see 
your boy busy with a stamp album — stamps 
just now being all the rage here. I looked at 
it for a while with him — Ronald is, I may say, 
a very intelligent boy, and we are all exceed- 
ingly pleased with him — and was amazed to find 
that what I had at first supposed to be a facsi- 
mile of the very rare blue Ruritania was in 
reality a genuine specimen, worth, I suppose, 
three or four hundred pounds. On my asking 
him how he obtained it, he said that Mr. Blis- 
sett, an old friend of the family, whom he calls 
Uncle Tom, sent the album to him as a gift. 
Thinking that you might like to inquire as to 
Mr. Blissett's wish to part — probably all un- 
consciously — with so valuable a treasure, and 
also with a view to greater safety, I took the 
album away with me and shall keep it in my 
charge. 

With kind regards to Mrs. Maberley, in 
which Mrs. Severus joins. 

Believe me. 
Yours sincerely, 
Theodore Severus 

Claude Maberley to Thomas Blissett 
My dear Tom, — You have been making a 
donkey of yourself. You have sent Ronald a 
stamp-album containing a genuine blue Ruri- 
[96] 



The Blue Ruritania 

tania, one of the scarcest things in the world, 
and Heaven knows what else besides. For 
greater safety, the Head Master has locked it 
up. Tell me what you want done about it. 

Yours, 
Claude 

Dr. Severus to Mr. Claude Maberley 
Dear Mr. Maberley, — I am sorry to say that 
something very unsatisfactory has occurred, 
which to a certain extent stultifies my letter to 
you of last evening. I said then that I was 
putting Ronald's album in safe keeping, but my 
precautions were insufficient, for to-day we have 
discovered that the blue Ruritania stamp is 
missing from it. Ronald can throw no light on 
the mystery. He says that the only person 
who has taken any interest in the album is one 
of my staff, Mr. Grinlay, a collector himself, 
who cannot assist me with any theory to-day as 
he has gone to town on urgent business. When 
he returns we must put our heads together and 
go into the whole matter. I take it that you 
would like me to inform the police? 

I am. 
Yours sincerely, 
Theodore Severus 



[97] 



Giving and Receiving 

Dr. Severus to Claude Maherley 
Telegram 
No need for further action. Stamp was 
replaced in album during night. Suspect prac- 
tical joke. 

Severus 

John Grinlay to Messrs. Angle & Wehh 
Dear Sirs, — Cheque enclosed to discharge 
your a/c. 

Yours faithfully, 

John Grinlay 

John Grinlay to his sister Nancy 
Telegram 
Don't worry any more. Am sending cheque 
to cover whole trip. 

Jack 

John Grinlay to Henry Thurston 
Dear Old Man, — I have had a stroke of luck 
and I am all straight once more. But never 
again! No one will ever know what I've been 
through. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Dr. Severus to Claude Maherley 
Dear Mr. Maherley, — In explanation of my 
telegram, let me say that all is well, although 
[98] 



The Blue Ruritania 

a certain mystery still attaches to the matter. 
When I came to examine the album the next 
day I found to my astonishment that the missing 
stamp was again in its place. My wife sug- 
gests that I had imagined the loss ; but that the 
whole affair is an hallucination on my part I 
cannot admit. On the other hand, it would, I 
feel, do no good in the school if further publicity 
were given to it. 

Yours sincerely, 
Theodore Severus 

Thomas "Blissett to Claude Maherley 
My dear Claude, — I was away when your 
letter came, or should have replied sooner. In 
the words of some eminent man or other, "What 
I have given, I have given"; and therefore the 
album is as much Ronald's now as if it had 
been worthless. What I should like is for it to 
be valued by an expert and sold, and the pro- 
ceeds to be invested for the boy. Perhaps you 
will arrange this.^ 

Yours, 

Tom 

Claude Maherley to Dr. Severus 
Dear Dr. Severus, — My friend Blissett has 
very sportingly decided that the stamp-album 
shall be Ronald's, no matter what its worth, and 

[99] 



Giving and Receiving 

he wishes it to be sold and the proceeds in- 
vested. Will you then kindly let me have it 
for valuation? 

We are glad you think so highly of Ronald. 

Believe me. 
Yours sincerely, 
Claude Maberley 

Claude Maberley to Messrs. Carstairs 
Dear Sirs, — I understand that you are our 
leading stamp-experts, and shall be glad to have 
your valuation of the accompanying album, 
which I wish to sell. 

I am. 
Yours faithfully, 
Claude Maberley 

Messrs. Carstairs, Postage Stamp Experts, to 
Claude Maberley, Esq. 
Dear Sir, — We have examined the album and 
value it at £240. Kindly let us know what 
you wish done in the matter. 

We are, 
Yours faithfully, 

Carstairs & Co. 

Claude Maberley to Messrs. Carstairs 
Dear Sirs, — I confess to being surprised by 
your valuation, because I have been given to 
understand that the collection contains a blue 
[100] 



The Blue Ruritania 

Ruritania, which alone should be Avorth be- 
tween three and four hundred pounds. 

I am, 
Yours faithfully, 
Claude Maberlky 

Messrs. Carstairs to Claude Maberley, Esq. 
Dear Sir, — In reply to yours of the 5th inst. 
we would point out that the blue Ruritania 
stamp in your album is a facsimile and not a 
genuine specimen. If it were genuine the value 
of the collection would be £590. Awaiting 
your instructions we are, 

Yours faithfully, 

Carstairs & Co. 

Claude Maberley to Thomas Blissett 
Dear Tom, — Life is a fraud, a sham, a hollow 
mockery, and dishonesty is the world's principal 
industry. Reduced to plain black and white, 
these sentiments mean that the blue Ruritania 
stamp is not a genuine one at all, worth at 
least £350, but a counterfeit worth nothing. 
Your poor friend who owned the album was 
deceived, and Dr. Severus, Ronald's dominie, 
seems to have been deceived, too. The rest of 
the collection is good enough to fetch £240, but 
the diamond of great price, the most dazzling 
jewel of the crown, turns out to be paste. At 

[101] 



Giving and Receiving 

the moment I am doing nothing more about it 
and Ronald thinks only of birds' eggs. 

Yours, 
Claude 



From the Personal Column of "The Times" 
Advertiser wishes to buy a genuine blue Ruri- 
tania stamp. Price must be named in reply. 
Write Box K, No. 321 The Times Office. 

Mr. Bennett to Box K. No. 321, "Times" Office 
Dear Sir, — In reply to your advertisement I 
can offer you a blue Ruritania, perfect example, 
for £370. 

I am, 
Yours faithfully, 

W. S. Bennett 

Mr. Thomas Blissett to Mr. Bennett 
Dear Sir, — I will call upon you to go into 
the matter of the blue Ruritania to-morrow 
(Thursday) at 4.30. 

Yours faithfully. 

Box K, No. 321. 

Thomas Blissett to John Grinlay, Esq., B.A. 
If Mr. Grinlay will ask for Mr. Holmes at 
the Junior Carlton Club on Thursday next at 
[102] 



The Blue Ruritania 

three o'clock, he will hear of something to his 
advantage. 

John Grinlay to Henry Thurston 
Dear Old Man, — I've had the most intriguing 
anonymous letter (which I enclose) and shall 
get leave to come up and see the unknown bene- 
factor. I count on you to lunch with me first. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Thomas Blissett to Claude Maherley 
Dear Claude, — You had better sell the album 
and add to the amount the cheque I am enclos- 
ing for £370. This represents the value of 
the blue Ruritania stamp which was in it when 
I sent the book to Ronald. I have told you, 
"What I have given, I have given." 

Having some suspicion as to what had hap- 
pened, I have been doing a little amateur sleuth- 
ing, and yesterday drew a full confession from 
the culprit and a promise from him — which he 
will keep — to refund by degrees. I will not tell 
you more than that Ronald's respected Head 
Master (if you ever suspected him) is as inno- 
cent as my knee. The guilty party was guilty 
only through despair, and is never likely to go 
wrong again. Nor am I likely ever more to 

[103] 



Giving and Receiving 

give schoolboys stamp-albums that have not 
been examined first by experts. 

Yours, 

Tom 

John Grinlay to Harry Thurston 
Dear Old Man, — I can't tell you what hap- 
pened, after all. I am bound to secrecy. I 
can only say that if there is a gentleman in the 
world it is the member of the Junior Carlton 
who calls himself Mr. Holmes. I am so happy 
I don't know what to do. 

Yours ever. 

Jack 



[104] 



SIGNS AND AVOIRDUPOIS 

100KING out of the train window on the 
■J Great Eastern the other day I caught 
sight of an inn called "The Safety Valve," and 
the novelty of the name set me reflecting on 
signboards generally and, in particular, their 
decay as an index to current events. This one 
with the unexpected appellation might, of 
course, have been christened in fun, but more 
likely was so called to associate it with the 
neighbouring lines of metal and the iron horses 
that career up and down them. I shall, prob- 
ably, never know. If I am right and it camq 
into being with steam engines, we have approxi- 
mately its date, just as, with more certainty, 
we know when "The Waterloo Arms" was 
opened. But signboards are historians no 
longer, or rather, history no longer can count 
on them as an ally. 

It is possible that no new inns are ever built 
in these days of grandmotherly legislation. I 
should not be surprised. The publican has 
been treated in late years with such studied 
unfairness that one does not see his trade luring 
many recruits. As to the humiliation which an 

[105] 



Giving and Receiving 

ordinary thirsty Englishman has far too long 
been feeling, in the coils of petty restrictions 
and prohibitions, I prefer to say nothing; one 
must keep cool. But if any new inns do come 
into existence I have no notion what they are 
called. All that I know is that I have never 
seen a contemporary sign. I have never seen 
a "King George's Head" with the features of 
our own monarch on the sign; I have never 
seen a "Queen's Head" with the features of 
Queen Mary; I have only once, and that was in 
Norfolk, seen a "Prince of Wales's Head" with 
the features of the most popular young man in 
the world. There are plenty of "King's Heads" 
and "Queen's Heads" all over the country, but 
they were built during previous reigns. There 
is a "George" in every old town, but the George 
so honoured is either I, II, III, or IV, and 
most probably III. 

Nor does the nomenclature of our hostelries 
keep pace with the changes of the road, ' There 
are "Four in Hands" all over the country; 
"The Coach and Horses" is a common sign. 
So are "The Horse Shoe," "The Horse and 
Groom," "The White Horse," "The Black 
Horse." But I know of no "Motorist's Arms," 
no "Jolly Shovers" (even though Shovers aren't 
jolly), no "Spark and Plug," no "Tyre and 
Hooter." Bricklayers have "Arms" every- 
[106] 



Signs and Avoirdupois 

where, but I have never seen Lorrymen simi- 
larly provided, and yet for every ten brick- 
layers to-day there must be a driver of a heavy 
motor wagon. "Cricketers' Arms" are dotted 
about England, but no one ever saw "The 
Golfers' Arms." And so on. At a certain mo- 
ment all effort to give inns signs of the times 
seems to have died out. 

I am not made permanently unhappy by the 
lapse ; but I have one very serious suggestion to 
put before every landlord and every brewery 
with tied houses, and that is that when next the 
time comes for re-painting the facade of their 
inns, the name of the town or village shall 
always be added to the sign. For some reason 
or other it has been decided that a profound 
secret shall be made of the identity of English 
towns and villages. In France — at any rate in 
the Department of the Marne — a notice is fixed 
to the first and last house of every village, giv- 
ing not only its own name, but the name of its 
nearest neighbour on the road. And here and 
there in England the Automobile Association 
has done something similar. In Surrey, for 
example. But it is sporadic, for there are no 
such signs everywhere, and even in Surrey I 
noticed recently that the boys with nothing to 
do on Sunday afternoons — honest public games 
being, in our Puritan folly, forbidden, although 

[107] 



Giving and Receiving 

the voices of lawn-tennis players are heard in 
every private garden — have thrown stones at 
the enamel until most of the words have been 
obliterated. 

The result is that if, while motoring in most 
parts of England, you miss the post office you 
miss the name of the place altogether; and the 
post office is often a retired cottage. Sign-posts 
might help if chauffeurs would allow you to 
read them, but it is a cardinal tenet of the chauf- 
feur's faith to forbid such frivolity. If, how- 
ever, the sign-board of "The Five Bells" at 
Bullingham comprised the word Bullingham all 
would be simple. Let Boniface do what no 
county council or rural or urban authority deems 
necessary. I was driven the other day from 
London to Rye by one route, and back by an- 
other, and was completely at a loss except 
where a post office could be discovered, and in 
the process of looking for the post office the 
beauty or interest of the place had to be sacri- 
ficed. 

But I must not pretend that when I enter a 
motor car I am ever under the delusion that I 
am going to see the country. I know only too 
well that the car is not the friend of the seeker 
after beauty. He who wants to know anything 
of the charm of England must be his own mas- 
ter, and no one who meddles with petrol is that. 
[108] 



Signs and Avoirdupois 

He must be able to stop at will and lean on 
gates, to turn aside into footpaths, even to 
retrace his steps. 

Now and again it has been suggested by some 
sanguine innovator — a poet with the backward 
look or an architect not so overburdened with 
commissions as to be yet mercenary — that the 
sign-board shall be revived in London. Although 
belonging to neither of these groups, I am as 
strongly in favour of it; for the sign can be a 
very attractive thing, gay or grave in colour 
and simple or fantastic in design, and a hundred 
of them hanging out from their bars at odd 
altitudes would make our streets amusing and 
picturesque. Trade also should follow this 
form of flag. But the reform tarries or is left 
to tea shops and such little odd concerns as 
flourish (or not) in single rooms in South Moul- 
ton Street, where there are more signs, for its 
length, than, I believe, in any London thor- 
oughfare. 

Were the board to come back, one of the 
pleasantest old world signs would be that of the 
"Coffee Mill," which would be seen merrily 
flaunting itself a few yards from the foot of St. 
James's Street on the left as you descend the 
hill; for it is the original style of that ancient 
wine office at No. 3 which you may have noticed 
even if you never have entered it: a dark som- 

[109] 



Giving and Receiving 

bre house of business, externally, with a side 
front on the little backwater known as Picker- 
ing Place, which still defies the march of prog- 
ress but has not recaptured its popularity either 
as a gaming centre, as it was in the eighteenth 
century, when it was called Pickering Court, 
or as a duelling ground. 

Pickering Place owes its name to the worthy 
tea and tobacco merchant who was its principal 
resident, and it was his business — at the sign of 
the "Coffee Mill" — which came in time into the 
hands of the present occupiers of No. 3 St. 
James's Street, Messrs. Berry Brothers & Co. ; 
but they, relinquishing their predecessor's ver- 
satility, pin their faith solely to those generous 
juices which America has latterly repudiated. 
England also, it is said, may follow suit, but 
at the sign of the "Coffee Mill" scepticism as 
to this revolution thrives and withers are un- 
wrung. It is not however of wine that I would 
write, but of avoirdupois. Men of weight. 

Surprising things happen in London so often 
that gradually the element of surprise disap- 
pears, and it is only a question of time for us to 
be prepared for all. A recent metropolitan dis- 
covery of mine — which I might have made 
thirty years before, if the clock had struck — 
is that at the sign of the "Coffee Mill" in St. 
James's Street is a pair of scales on which, for 
[110] 



Signs and Avoirdupois 

fully a century and a half, all that was most 
eminent in human form has sat to be weighed, 
and is still sitting; and that ever since the year 
1765 accurate records of illustrious and often 
regal ponderosity have been kept. It was ab- 
surd to have lived in London since 1892 and to 
have learned this only in 1920; but that illus- 
trates both the tangle of caprice which (for 
want of a better word) we call life, and the 
inexhaustibility of our city. 

"If you want to know how much Charles 
Lamb weighed in 1814, I can tell you the way 
to find out" — it was that casual remark which 
put me at last on the scent; and now I can 
supply devout Elians with the information that 
in 1814, when he was thirty-nine, their divinity 
turned the scale, in his boots, at 9 stone, 3 lb.; 
or almost a stone more than I was expecting 
after so much evidence as to his "immaterial" 
form. But his boots may have been very 
heavy. 

Having made the start I continued investiga- 
tions, with the assistance of an analysis of the 
book which one of the partners has made. 
Keeping to literature I discovered that Lord 
Byron, whom we know to have been sensitive 
about his bulk, was weighed many times, first 
in 1806, when he was living at No. 8, only five 
doors away. He was then 13 stone 12 lb. in 

[111] 



Giving and Receiving 

his boots. This result must have distressed ex- 
ceedingly one who lived in fear of embonpoint, 
even to the drinking of vinegar and general 
mortification of the flesh. In 1807, in shoes 
only, he had got it down to 10 stone 13 lb., and 
in 1811, again in shoes, to 9 stone 11% lb. 
Tom Moore, his Lordship's biographer, seems 
similarly to have decreased, for in 1807 he was 
10 stone 6 lbs. and in 1809, 8 stone 13 lb. 
Another famous man who can also have had no 
wish to lose his figure, and who will go down 
to history as much for his insolent question as 
to the identity of the Prince Regent (with whom 
he had quarrelled) "Who's your fat friend.?" as 
for his fastidiousness in ties, dwindled too. In 
1798 he was 12 stone 4 lb., in boots; in 1811, 
13 stone 10 lb. in boots and frock; and in 1815, 
12 stone IQl/^ lb., in shoes. In 1815 the 
Beau's reign was nearing its end, for a year 
later he had to fly from his creditors to Calais. 
None the less there is still one more entry, in 
1822, suggesting that he was able to visit the 
scenes of his old triumphs yet once again, and 
then he was 10 stone 13 lb. in boots. As for 
the fat friend, he was here many times. In 
1791 he weighed 17 stone 4 lb., in boots; in 
1798, 16 stone "after gout"; in 1800, 17 stone 
9 lb. in hat and boots; and later that year, 
[112] 



Signs and Avoirdupois 

16 stone 5 lb. "after gout"; in 1803, "with 
gout," 15 stone 8 lb. 

Many of William Hickey's boon companions 
came to the "Coffee Mill" to be weighed, but 
there is no record of a visit by himself. The 
Earl of Peterborough, for example, who was one 
of the original members of the Dining Club of 
twenty — "the dinner to consist of every article 
procurable whether in or out of season": a good 
preparation for the "Coffee Mill's" scales. 
Thomas Creevey the diarist was on the heavy 
side: in 1808, 14 stone, and 1837, 15 stone 7 lb. 
Abraham Hayward was much lighter, being, in 
1886, in boots, only 8 stone 2l/^ lb. Joseph 
Hume, the economist and Radical, before he was 
weighed laid aside his coat and his watch but 
retained his boots. Quite a number of the more 
particular clients stripped absolutely and had 
the doors closed, among them Lord Dunmore. 
Charles James Fox in 1773, in his boots, 
weighed 12 stone 8 lb.; in 1781, in shoes, 13 
stone 12 lb. George Cruikshank was on the 
scales in 1826, but how the author of The 
Bottle and The Triumph of Bacchus could 
bring himself to enter this establishment I can- 
not understand. In 1826 he weighed 11 stone 
2 lb., and in 1840, 9 stone 121/^ lb. The Iron 
Duke is absent, but many illustrious soldiers 
are in the records, among them Sir John Moore, 

[113] 



Giving and Receiving 

12 stone 1 lb. in shoes in 1784, and 11 stone 
11% lb. in half boots in 1808; Sir Colin Camp- 
bell, 11 stone 6 lb. in 1827; and Captain Fred 
Burnaby, who was a giant, 14 stone 10^^ lb. 

The heaviest man who ever burdened the 
"Coffee Mill" scales was Mr. George Drum- 
mond who, in 1850, registered 25 stone 12 lb. 
But his negligible bulk compared with that of 
Mr. Bright of Maldon, who, at the age of 
twenty-nine, when he laid aside his panoply, 
weighed 44 stone. No visit of Mr. Bright to 
the "Coffee Mill" is recorded, but there is a 
print on the oflSce wall depicting the wager be- 
tween Mr. Codd and Mr. Hants, the bet being 
that seven men could be buttoned within Mr. 
Bright's waistcoat. It was easily won, on De- 
cember 1, 1750, in the "Black Bull" at Maldon, 
kept at that time by the Widow Day. Whether 
there are any such colossi now I cannot say. 
Mr. Chesterton is, to the familiar press, the 
recognized example of heroic girth, and many 
are the jokes on the subject — such as his gal- 
lantry in standing in an omnibus to offer his 
seat to three ladies — but there is an element of 
myth in the whole affair. It is my privilege 
to know Mr. Chesterton, and I can assure those 
who do not that he is not so immense as all 
that — not, I mean, in body. In mind and sym- 
pathies, yes. Meanwhile, just to prove that an 
[114] 



Signs and Avoirdupois 

interest in amplitude and pinguidity still ob- 
tains, let me mention that I saw a Scotch paper 
the other day in which the proprietor of a 
Waxworks Exhibition advertised for a char- 
woman: "Must weigh over 20 stone. Wages 
£l a day." 



[115] 



FOR OURSELVES ALONE 

OUR hostess had taken us over to "Shel- 
tered End," the pleasant country home 
of Mrs. Willoughby Brock, to play tennis. As, 
however, there was only one court, and quite a 
number of young and middle-aged people were 
standing near it with racquets in their hands 
and an expression on their faces in which frus- 
tration and anticipation fought for supremacy, 
it followed that other beguilements had to be 
found. My own fate was to fall into the hands 
of Mrs. Brock, whose greatest delight on earth 
seems to be to have a stranger to whom she can 
display the beauties of her abode and enlarge 
upon the unusual qualities of her personality. 

She showed and told me all. We explored 
the estate, from the dog-kennel to the loggia for 
sleeping out "under the stars"; from the per- 
gola to the library; from the sundial to the 
telephone, "the only one for miles"; and as we 
walked between the Michaelmas daisies in her 
long herbaceous borders, with Red Admiral 
butterflies among the myriad little clean purple 
and mauve blossoms, she said how odd it was 
that some people have the gift of attracting 
[116] 



For Ourselves Alone 

friends and others not; and what a strange 
thing it is that where one person has to toil to 
make a circle, others are automatically sur- 
rounded by nice creatures; and asked me if I 
had any views as to the reason, but did not 
pause for the reply. 

It was a warm mellow day — almost the first 
of Slimmer, according to one's senses, although 
nearly the last, according to the calendar — and 
Mrs. Brock was so happy to be in a monologue 
that I could enjoy the garden almost without 
interruption. For a two and a half years' 
existence it certainly was a triumph. Here and 
there a reddening apple shone. The hollyhocks 
must have been ten feet high. 

"Ah ! here comes the dear Vicar," said Mrs. 
Brock suddenly, and, rising from a rose which I 
had stooped down to inhale (and I wish that 
people would grow roses, as they used to do 
years ago, nose-high), I saw a black figure ap- 
proaching. 

"He is such a charming man," Mrs. Brock 
continued, "and devoted to me." 

"Good afternoon," said the Vicar. "How 
exquisite those delphiniums are !" he added after 
introductions were complete; "such a delicate 
blue ! I should not have intruded had I known 
you had a party" — he waved his hand towards 
the single tennis-court, around which the wistful 

[117] 



Giving and Receiving 

racquet-bearers were now (as it seemed) some 
thousands strong, "but it is always a pleasure" 
— he turned to me — "to be able to walk in this 
paradise on a fine day and appreciate its colour 
and its fragrance. I find Mrs. Brock so valu- 
able a parochial counsellor too." 

"I think," I said, not in the least unwilling 
to be tactful, "I will see what the rest of our 
party are doing." 

"Oh, no," said the Vicar; "please don't let 
me drive you away. As a matter of fact, since 
there are so many here I won't stay myself. 
But I wonder," he addressed Mrs. Brock, "as I 
am here, if I might use your telephone for a 
moment ?" 

"Of course," said sheu 

"Thank you so much," he replied; "yes, I 
know where it is," and with a genial and courtly 
salutation he moved oflf in the direction of the 
house. 

"Such a true neighbour!" said Mrs. Brock. 
"Ah! and here is another," she went on. And 
along the same path, where the Michaelmas 
daisies were thickest, I saw a massive woman in 
white, like a ship in full sail, bearing down upon 
us, defending her head from the gentle Septem- 
ber Sim with a red parasol. "This," Mrs. 
Brock hurriedly informed me, "is Lady Cran- 
stone, who lives in the house with the green 
[118] 



For Ourselves Alone 

shutters at the end of the village. Such a dear 
person ! She's always in and out. The widow 
of the famous scientist, you know." 

I didn't know; but what did it matter.^ 

By this time the dear person was within hail- 
ing distance, but she flew no signals of cor- 
diality; her demeanour indeed struck me as 
austere and arrogant. Mrs. Brock hurried 
towards her to assist her to her moorings, and I 
was duly presented. 

"I didn't intend to come in again to-day," 
said Lady Cranstone, whose features still suc- 
cessfully failed to give to the stranger any 
indication of the benignity that, it was sug- 
gested, irradiated her being. 

"But you are always so welcome," said Mrs. 
Brock. "Lady Cranstone," she continued to 
me, "is kindness itself. She makes all the dif- 
ference between loneliness and — and content." 

Lady Cranstone picked a rose and pinned it 
in her monumental bosom. "I don't know that 
I had anything in particular to say," she re- 
marked. "I chanced to be passing and I 
merely looked in ; but since I am here perhaps 
you would allow me to use your telephone " 

Mrs. Brock expressed her delighted acquies- 
cence and the frigate sailed on. "You've no 
idea," said Mrs. Brock, "what a friendly crowd 
there is in these parts. I don't know how it is, 

[119] 



Giving and Receiving 

but this little place of mine, modest though it 
is, and unassuming and unclever as I am, is 
positively the very centre of the district. It's 
like a club house. How strange life is ! What 
curious byways there are in human sympathy !" 

This being the kind of remark that is best 
replied to with an inarticulate murmur, I pro- 
vided an inarticulate murmur; and I was about 
to make a further and more determined effort 
to get away when a maid-servant approached 
with a card. 

Mrs. Brock took it and read the name with a 
little cry of satisfaction. "Lord Risborough," 
she said to me. "At last ! • How nice of him to 
call. They live at Risborough Park, you know. 
I always said they would never condescend to 
dignify 'Sheltered End' with their presence; 
but I somehow knew they would." She purred 
a little. And then, "Where is his lordship?" 
she asked; but the girl's reply was rendered 
unnecessary by the nobleman himself, who ad- 
vanced briskly upon Mrs. Brock, hat in hand. 

"I trust," he said, "that you will pardon the 
informality of this visit. Lady Risborough is so 
sorry not to have been able to call yet, but — 

but Yes, I was wondering if you'd be so 

very kind as to do me a little favour .'' The fact 
is our telephone is out of order — most annoy- 
[120] 



For Ourselves Alone 

ing — and I wondered if you would let me use 
yours. I hear that you have one." 

"I will take you to it," said Mrs. Brock. 

"Most kind, most kind!" his lordship was 
muttering. 

There was no difficulty in making my escape 
now. 



[121] 



ANOTHER "YOUNG CRICKETERS' 
TUTOR" 

MOHUMMUD ABDULLAH KHAN'S 
Cricket Guide was published in Lucknow 
in 1891^ the full title being Cricket Guide in- 
tended for the use of Young Players, containing 
a Short but Comprehensive Account of the 
Game, embracing all the important Rules and 
Directions nicely arranged in due Succession. 
The reason given by the Indian Nyren for put- 
ting forth this work was the wish to allay the 
fever which cricket seems then to have been 
provoking in his compatriots. Those who re- 
member the sang-froid, the composed mastery, 
of Prince Ranjitsinhji may be surprised to learn 
that, at any rate in 1891, cricket had a way of 
rushing to young India's head. "Even those," 
wrote Mohummud Abdullah Khan, "who are 
very good and noble (say, next-door to angels) 
turn so rash and inconsiderate at certain mo- 
ments that their brains lose the balance and 
begin to take fallacious fancies." More, they 
"boil over with rage, pick up quarrels with one 
another, and even look daggers at their own 
dearest friends and darlings," the cause being 
[122] 



Another "Young Cricketers' Tutor" 

not only the game itself, but an ignorance of 
the laws that should govern it and them, and 
without obedience to which "a human body is 
nothing but a solid piece of rocky hill, that is 
to say 'cleverness.' " Very well, then. Feel- 
ing as he did about it, Mohummud Abdullah 
Khan had no alternative but to write his book. 

Practical as the instructions of this Oriental 
teacher can be, it is deportment that really lies 
nearest his heart. He is as severe on a want 
of seriousness as upon loss of temper. Thus, he 
says: "The fielders must take especial care not 
to exchange jokes with one another or try 
funny tricks that do secretly divide their atten- 
tion and produce a horrible defect in their field- 
ing." Again, "Behave like gentlemen after the 
game is over; avoid clapping and laughing in 
faces of the persons you have defeated." But 
there is no harm in a match being momentarily 
interrupted by a touch of courtesy. Thus: "If 
you are the Captain of your team and the 
fielders of the opposite party clap your welcome, 
you are required simply to turn or raise your 
night cap a little, and this is sufficient to prove 
your easy turn of disposition as well as to fur- 
nish the return of their compliments." 

For the most part the directions are sound, 
even if they may be a little obscure in state- 
ment; but now and then one is puzzled. The 

[123] 



Giving and Receiving 

game in India must have been animated indeed 
if no error has crept into the following note 
on the bowler: "During one and the same over 
the bowler is allowed to change his ends as 
often as he may desire, but cannot possibly 
bowl two overs in succession." And this reads 
oddly: "The bowler is allowed to make the bats- 
man stand in any direction he may choose from 
the wicket he is bowling from." But no fault 
can be found here: "The bowler must always 
try to pitch his ball in such a style and position 
that its spring may always rest on the wickets 
to be aimed at. He must know the proper rules 
of no balls and wides and" — here we are again ! 
— "must never be wishing to pick up any quarrel 
with the umpire of the opposite party." 

And so we reach the umpires, upon whom the 
author becomes very earnest. Under the frenetic 
conditions to which cricket could reduce his 
countrymen, to act as umpire was no joke. In- 
deed he goes so far as to advise the reader never 
to fill that position except when the match is 
between teams personally unknown to him. 
For to umpire among friends is to turn those 
friends to foes. "Take special care, my dear 
umpires, not to call over unless the ball has 
finally settled in the wicket-keeper's hand, as 
well as avoid ordering a batsman out unless you 
are appealed to by the opposite party. . . . 
[124] 



Another "Young Cricketers' Tutor" 

Each and every one of the umpires must avoid 
using insulting terms, or playing on bets with 
any one of the fielders or persons in general, in 
his capacity of being an umpire." 

The requirements of a perfect wicket-keeper 
are well set forth. After describing his some- 
what "stooping conditions" the mentor says, "I 
would like this man to be of a grave demean- 
our and humble mind, say the Captain of the 
Club, whose duties are to guide the fielders, 
order the change of their places if necessary," 
and "guard himself well against the furious 
attacks of the sweeping balls." Here Mohum- 
mud Abdullah Khan is among some of the best 
critics, who have always held that for the cap- 
tain to be wicket-keeper (as, for example, in the 
case of Gregor MacGregor) is an ideal arrange- 
ment. 

Point also needs some special qualities: "He 
must be a very smart and very clever man, 
of a quick sight and slender form." (Slender 
form.'' And yet one has seen "W. G." doing 
not so badly there!) "His place is in front of 
the popping-crease, about seven yards from the 
striker. He must take special care to protect 
his own person in case when fast bowling is 
raging through the field. Pay great attention 
to the game, my dear pointer, or suppose your- 
self already hurt." 

[125] 



ON BEING A FOREIGNER 

AFTER living securely on one's own native 
x\. soil for years and years, not without sus- 
picion as to the sanity, cleanliness, morality, 
and general suitability of the inhabitants of all 
the other countries of the world, it is startling 
to set foot on alien ground and realize that one 
has suddenly become a foreigner oneself; that 
one is a kind of trespasser, a dweller elsewhere 
on sufferance ; that one's own people, and (even 
more important) one's own vocabulary, are over 
there, behind. This is — or should be — one of 
those moments when we pause and take stock, 
overwhelmed by the thought, so impressive to 
Thomas Hood, "that even the little children 
speak French !" But different people, of course, 
act in different ways, and, while the humble 
will realize their foreignness and walk warily, 
the arrogant will do everything in their power 
to annex the new territory as their own and 
make its natives feel like outcasts and excres- 
cences. The fury of a woman scorned I have 
seen reduced to meekness in comparison with 
the rage of a certain kind of traveller at logger- 
heads with a porter who has the effrontery to 
understand no language but his own. 
[126] 



On Being a Foreigner 

That is a not too uncommon sight at Calais 
and Boulogne; and I have always thought it 
would be interesting to meet the same travellers 
on their way back and to see how they have 
improved — what being a foreigner has done for 
them. For there should be no state more in- 
structive and, often, humiliating. 

Dividing foreigners into the bad and the good, 
I should say — but first of all we must make up 
our minds as to what a good foreigner is. For 
example, there is a story of an English intoler- 
ant who, on hearing that a friend had returned 
from abroad in shattered health, remarked, "I've 
always said that abroad was a nasty place." 
Now this speaker could be described both as a 
very bad foreigner or a very good one, according 
as the case is considered. A good foreigner, 
you see, may equally be the alien who is most 
readily absorptive of the habits and customs of 
the coiuitry he is now in, or the alien who retains 
and guards the greatest number of native pecu- 
liarities and is proud of doing so. In the first 
case he would be a better emigrant than in 
the other, but as to his merits as a foreigner 
you pay your money and you take your choice. 
If we take the second group to be the more 
admirable — and in a way it must be so, for it is 
better to cherish personality than to see it 
blurred and misty, without definition — then the 

[127] 



Giving and Receiving 

French are among the best foreigners of all. 
Their reluctance to leave their country causes 
them, when they are forced to take the horrid 
step, to carry as much of it about with them as 
they can; to meet only their compatriots; to 
dine in restaurants where the cuisine is French; 
and to embrace every opportunity of not acquir- 
ing the language, or if, for reasons of diplomacy 
or commerce, it must be acquired, to cling 
passionately to their own accent. Englishmen 
have occasionally been found to speak French 
like a native, but no Frenchman ever spoke 
English in that way. It is not the Frenchman's 
fault; it is due to the way he is made. The 
problems of ethnology are indeed endless. The 
impossibility of a man living at Calais being 
able to pronounce even the simple monosyllable 
"No" like a man living twenty-one miles north 
of him, at Dover, is only one of thousands. It 
should have been enough for the Tower of Babel 
to confuse tongues; to go on to construct 
larynges incapable of reproducing one's neigh- 
bours' vowel sounds at all was gratuitous. Yet 
that is what happened. When an Englishman 
talks French like an Englishman the reason 
often enough is that he would die rather than 
subject his mouth to the undignified contortions 
that are necessary if any Gallic illusion is to be 
set up. To talk like a Frenchman would not 
[1281 



On Being a Foreigner 

be an impossibility. But a Frenchman's vocal 
arrangements — the tone of his voice alone — are 
wholly incapable of being bent to the desired 
end. This^ then, is one reason why the French- 
man is the best foreigner; but the principal rea- 
son is that he does not want to assimilate; he 
wants never to settle down, but eternally to be 
on the qui vive (his own phrase) to hear la belle 
France calling him back. 

When we take the other meaning of "best" 
as applied to a foreigner — namely, the most 
successfully assimilative — the Englishman comes 
perhaps first, by reason of his willingness to live 
out of his own country, and of an inexhaustible 
curiosity that leads him to explorations which 
often provide him with a deeper knowledge of 
the adopted land than many of its own inhabi- 
tants possess, although, of course, only in spots. 
I don't think Americans make such good for- 
eigners, in this sense, as the English; but there 
is no comparison between America and England 
in the capacity of the two countries to turn a 
foreigner into a citizen. It is America's large- 
hearted way to insist upon the aliens who reach 
her shores becoming Americans as quickly as 
possible, and the guests fall easily and naturally 
into line. But aliens in England come in for 
some very hard knocks in the House of Com- 
mons and in the Press, and, since the War, they 

[129] 



Giving and Receiving 

have effected a landing only with difficulty. 
There are reasons enough for this, but a single 
one is sufficient. England is a small country, 
not so big as the state of New York, and there 
simply isn't room for them. Those that have 
transplanted themselves there are always think- 
ing about the blissful day when they can go 
home again. I don't say that they do go home; 
but they talk about going, plan for it, save up 
for it, and, I think, mean to depart. For years 
the staple of conversation between an Italian 
barber in London and myself has been his dream 
of ultimate retirement to Livorno, there to be 
happy among his spaghetti and Chianti, to sit 
outside the cafe under a trustworthy sun, where 
he will discuss politics and never give a glance 
to any chevelure or chin but his own. Very 
likely he will never go, and his bones will even- 
tually be deposited in the Italian cemetery at 
Kensal Green; but to go is his hope and his 
desire. Yet it is conceivable that he will be 
happier to toy with the hope and defer its fulfil- 
ment. 

One of the worst calamities that can come 
upon a man must be this: to live abroad for 
so long that when at last he returns to his own 
country he is a foreigner there. A worse calam- 
ity is not to want to return at all. There is 
usually something very wrong with a man whose 
[130] 



On Being a Foreigner 

denationalization is wilful. To forswear one's 
own country is treachery. 

But there can be such a thing as denational- 
ization by force. I was hearing the other day 
of an American of distinguished attainments 
who for so long has been domiciled in Switzer- 
land that he has become a new Philip Nolan — 
a man without a country. America, it appears, 
insists on the periodical return of her sons to 
the motherland if they are to retain the privilege 
of family membership; and it is more than fifty 
years since this scholar and Alpinist was at 
home. 

Do the Italians in America feel the same 
nostalgia as my friend, I wonder, or are they all 
Americans.'' Those that I met in New York, in 
the district just below Washington Square, 
seemed contented enough, and to be in their 
restaurants was to feel perfectly at Rome; but 
more than one of them confessed that the loss 
of the vino was making the exile distasteful in 
a new way. 

I have said that the English become willing 
foreigners, but the Scotch go beyond willingness 
— they are eager to emigrate. Doctor Johnson 
had always something caustic at his tongue's 
end to say on this subject, but the famous 
couplet by Cleveland is the deadliest com- 
mentary : 

[131] 



Giving and Receiving 

Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his 

doom: 
Not forced him wander, but condemned him home. 

Still, it is neither the English nor the Scotch 
who are the best foreigners in our first sense of 
the word best. They live abroad and accommo- 
date themselves among strange peoples, but they 
cannot forget the place of their birth. It may 
not be ever present in their minds, as it is with 
exiles from the fair land of France, but it is 
there. When, however, we come to the best 
foreigners of all this thought does not trouble; 
the Jews are undisturbed by ghosts from their 
native land. The Jews, having no country of 
their own, make whatever country they settle 
in theirs. Only one of them wanders; the rest 
establish themselves, prosper, and gradually 
become more American than the Americans, 
more English than the English, more French 
than the French, 

With the English the art of becoming a 
foreigner is a more drastic matter than with a 
Frenchman or any other Continental. A French- 
man has merely to slip across the frontier be- 
tween his country and his neighbours' to be- 
come a foreigner in Belgium, Germany, Switzer- 
land, Italy, or Spain. If he chances to live 
near one of the borders, it may be an everyday 
occurrence for him. Even an American can 
[132] 



On Being a Foreigner 

become a foreigner in Canada or Mexico with- 
out undergoing the torture of a sea crossing. 
But the English are doomed. The Englishman 
in order to become a foreigner must cross the 
sea, and this makes it an event. He thus has 
time not only to reflect upon what he is doing, 
but (when Britannia is ruling the waves indif- 
ferently well) to wish he had never set out on 
such a fool's errand at all. 

That is the reason why an Englishman who 
wishes to become a foreigner for the safety of 
his own skin — a fugitive from justice — has so 
much more difficult a time than a Continental 
malefactor, or an American. For them there 
are so many obscure and unnoticeable ways of 
getting into another country and being lost, 
but the Englishman must resort to officials, and 
then, having obtained a passport, he must take 
a ship, and while he is doing this there is time 
for a description of him to be cabled in every 
direction. Now the catch about a ship is that 
you cannot leave it except by a gang-plank two 
feet wide. The world is a vast place, but it is 
continually narrowing down to gang-planks two 
feet wide stretched from decks to quays, with 
detectives at the shore end of them. This, per- 
haps, is why England is so moral a country. 

Returning to virtue, I would put it on record, 
from my own experience, that there is a particu- 

[133] 



Giving and Receiving 

lar pleasure in being a foreigner in a country 
— such as America or Ireland — where the lan- 
guage is one's own. Half the joy of loitering in 
France and Italy has always been lost to me 
through inability to carry on wayside conversa- 
tions. I can ask questions with any one, but 
nobody so successfully fails to understand the 
reply. But in Ireland, which is as foreign to an 
Englishman as any Latin country, I can talk all 
day; and am delighted to do so. In America, 
too, I found myself able to exchange ideas with 
quite a number of its inhabitants. Now and 
then the native idiom was too much for me, but 
for the most part I could both be fluent and • 
comprehend fluency. I have not found that 
good linguists are any cleverer or better in- 
formed than other people; and yet on the face 
of it a man who carries thirty living languages 
in his head should have more that is interesting 
to tell than a man who has conversed only with 
his own countrymen. But the truth is that 
linguistic ability is a branch of the art of mimi- 
cry, and mimics can be the dullest dogs when 
they are not impersonating others. 

In spite of my conversational ease I felt that 
I had failed utterly — at any rate, with one 
individual — when a New York interviewer said 
of me that I resembled a typical American busi- 
ness man. Not that I have anything against 
[134] 



On Being a Foreigner 

the American business man (whom I have ad- 
miringly watched being Napoleonic in his office 
and sat with, when he is tired, at some very 
amusing burlesques), nor have I any poignant 
reluctance to look like him; but I would rather 
have looked like myself, who, in too many re- 
spects besides wealth, am probably his very 
antipodes. None the less I would not be so 
idiosyncratic, so insular, as to be continually 
an object of remark, because the art of travel, 
on which so many foreigners are principally 
engaged, is to be more observing than observed. 
The highest compliment that can be paid to a 
foreigner is to be stopped in the street and 
asked the way by a native. Let him be con- 
tent with that; even if he cannot answer the 
question, he has scored a point. But it will 
never happen to him if he retains too many of 
his distinguishing marks. 

As a matter of fact, the number of English- 
men who resemble Americans beyond ordinary 
optical detection is very small. They may dress 
the part to perfection, but something will betray 
them — gait or posture or features — while in 
England most Americans reveal themselves in- 
stantly as such. We can pick out the Aus- 
tralians, too, in a moment. 

It is the boast of most travellers that they 
are "citizens of the world," but the true citizen 

[135] 



Giving and Receiving 

of the world is very scarce. It is not enough to 
be able to order a good dinner in any language; 
which is the ordinary qualification. Moreover, 
no white man can really be a citizen of the dark 
world or a dark man a citizen of the white ; they 
can at best make their habitations there. Only 
with the assistance of disguise can a man be a 
citizen of the whole world, and even then there 
are countries that would tax his ingenuity too 
far. Sir Richard Burton could get to Mecca, 
but could he have persuaded a Tokyo policeman 
that he was a true-born Japanese? The trans- 
lator of the Arabian Nights had recourse to 
walnut juice, or its equivalent, when he set out 
on his perilous pilgrimage, but for ordinary 
purposes the best protective colouring for tra- 
vellers who do not wish to be too much gaped 
at is a native hat. If one always bought at 
Calais, immediately on disembarking, a hat two 
sizes too small, one might pass through France 
without attracting a glance. Indigenous clothes 
would make things so much easier that I am 
surprised that no enterprising merchant — prob- 
ably of Hebraic origin — has opened in every 
harbour a clothing store where the more char- 
acteristic apparel of the country can be obtained 
by the arriving voyagers. It is as reasonable 
as a money-changer's office. 

This reminds me of my own failure with 
[136] 



On Being a Foreigner 

headgear. Before leaving England I had care- 
fully selected what I imagined to be a hat that 
would pass unnoticed in any American street, 
where the soft hat has always been more in 
vogue than, until recently, in London. On ar- 
riving at San Francisco, and being continually 
(short of the point of surrendering my walking- 
stick) desirous of mingling and merging rather 
than attracting attention, I was prepared to buy 
a Stetson, or whatever offered, if it seemed that 
my own choice was outlandish; but I decided 
that it would serve. How wrong I was I 
learned when I came to read a description of 
myself by Mr. Holliday, who, after passing me 
under examination in Chicago, dwelt with al- 
most savage emphasis on the exotic peculiarities 
of my headgear. 

Of all the cities that I know, London is most 
particular about its hats; we adjust them in 
mirrors and deplore slovenly angles; and this 
carefulness is an aid, by contrast, in detecting 
the alien in our midst, who is almost always less 
self-consciously roofed. But hats, though so 
indicative and as evidence often so trustworthy, 
are not all. There is the walk. Why should a 
Frenchman take a shorter step than an English- 
man? Has this ever been explained? Jews 
are said to shuffle because their ancestors in the 
desert had to push the sand aside with their 

[137] 



Giving and Receiving 

feet. True or not, the explanation is plausible, 
and certainly a vast majority of Jews, no matter 
what flag they trade under, or how far from 
Palestine, still walk in this way and could be 
known by it if the other racial signs were in- 
visible. 

The good foreigner, however we define him, 
is distinguished by an instantaneous quickening 
of vision. At home we take almost everything 
but our neighbours' failings (which must be 
narrowly inquired into), fallen horses, and vehi- 
cular collisions, for granted ; but when we travel 
we are observing all the while. This is why it 
is only foreigners and provincials who know 
anything of the treasures of art and architecture 
that any city possesses. Have you ever seen a 
Florentine in the Uffizi.'' or a New-Yorker in 
the Metropolitan Museum? This may be a too 
extreme question; but I am certain that no 
one ever saw a Parisian in Sainte Chapelle, and 
it was not until they heard, the other day, that 
it was about to fall down, that any Londoners 
ever entered Westminster Abbey. If, however, 
you wish when in Paris to be sure of hearing 
the language of England and America you may 
confidentially seek the Louvre. 



[138] 



THE CYNOSURE 

AMONG the passengers on the boat was a 
. tall dark man with a black moustache and 
well-cut clothes who spent most of his time pac- 
ing the deck or reading alone in his chair. 
Every ship has such recluses. Often, however, 
they are on the fringe of several sets, although 
members of none, but this man remained apart 
and, being so solitary, was naturally the subject 
of comment and inquiry, even more of conjec- 
ture. His name was easy to discover from the 
plan of the tables, but we knew no more until 
little Mrs. King, who is the best scout in the 
world, brought the tidings. 

"I can't tell you much," she began breath- 
lessly; "but there's something frightfully inter- 
esting. Colonel Swift knows all about him. He 
met him once in Poona and they have mutual 
friends. And how do you think he described 
him? He says he's the worst liver in India." 

There is no need to describe the sensation 
created by this piece of information. If the 
man had set us guessing before, he now excited 
a frenzy of curiosity. The glad news traversed 
the ship like wind, brightening every eye; at 

[139] 



Giving and Receiving 

any rate every female eye. For, though the 
good may have their reward elsewhere, it is 
beyond doubt that, if public interest is any guer- 
don, a certain variety of the bad get it on 
earth. 

Show me a really bad man — dark-complex- 
ioned, with well-cut clothes and a black mous- 
tache — and I will show' you a hero; a hero a 
little distorted, it is true, but not much the less 
heroic for that. Show me a notorious breaker 
of male hearts and moral laws and — so long as 
she is still in business — I will show you a hero- 
ine: again a little distorted, but with more than 
the magnetism of the virtuous variety. 

For the rest of the voyage the lonely passen- 
ger was lonely only because he preferred to be, 
or was unaware of the agitation which he 
caused. People walked for hours longer than 
they liked or even intended, in order to have a 
chance of passing him in his chair and scrutiniz- 
ing again the features that masked such deprav- 
ity. For that they masked it cannot be denied. 
A physiognomist looking at him would have 
conceded a certain gloom, a trend towards intro- 
spection, possibly a hypertrophied love of self, 
but no more. Physiognomists, however, can 
retire from the case, for they are as often 
wrong as handwriting experts. And if any 
Lavater had been on board and had advanced 
[140] 



The Cynosure 

such a theory he would have been as unpopular 
as Jonah, for the man's wickedness was not 
only a joy to us but a support. Without it the 
voyage would have been intolerable. 

What, we all wondered, had he done? Had 
he murdered, as well as destroyed happy homes ? 
Was he crooked at cards.'' Our minds became 
acutely active, but we could discover no more 
because the old Colonel, the source of knowl- 
edge, had fallen ill and was confined to his 
berth. 

Meanwhile the screw revolved, sweepstakes 
were lost and won, deck sports flourished, fancy- 
dress dances were held, concerts were endured, a 
Colonial Bishop addressed us on Sunday morn- 
ings, and all the time the tall dark man with 
the sallow complexion and the black moustache 
and different suits of well-cut clothes sat in his 
chair and passed serenely from one Oppenheim 
to another as though no living person were 
within leagues. 

It was not until we were actually in port that 
the Colonel recovered and I came into touch 
with him. Standing by the rail we took advan- 
tage of the liberty to speak together which on a 
ship such propinquity sanctions. After we had 
exchanged a few remarks about the clumsiness 
of the disembarking arrangements, I referred 
to the man of mystery and turpitude, and asked 

[141] 



Giving and Receiving 

for particulars of some of his milder offences. 

"Why do you suppose him such a black- 
guard?" he asked. 

"But surely " I began, a little discon- 
certed. 

"He's a man," the Colonel continued, "that 
every one should be sorry for. He's a wreck, 
and he's going home now probably to receive 
his death sentence." 

This was a promising phrase and I cheered 
up a little, but only for a moment. 

"That poor devil," said the Colonel, "as I 
told Mrs. King earlier in the voyage, has the 
worst liver in India." 



[142] 



THOUGHTS ON THEFT 

WE must all, at times, have wished to 
follow a famous example and, lighting 
the candle, examine the other fellow's bumps; 
for "How," we despairingly cry, "can it be pos- 
sible for a human being to behave like that? 
What kind of skull can he possess, to be so 
absurd?" — the detection of absurdity in others 
being one of life's most constant alleviations. 
But perhaps what really incites us to reach for 
the candlestick is not so much the absurdity of 
. others as their difference from ourselves. "I 
flatter myself," we say, "I can understand most 
points of view, even though I don't agree with 
them; but the way So-and-so goes on absolutely 
beats me." How often has one heard that! 

At the moment, any researches of my own 
into cranial protuberance or concavity would 
be confined to the head of the individual who 
stole my door-mat. I had moved into a new 
flat and provided myself with a door-mat of 
some excellence, which, with a want of suspicion 
that may strike you as childish but is an essen- 
tial ingredient of my character, I placed outside 
instead of inside the door. It remained there 

[143] 



Giving and Receiving 

considerably less than an hour. Indeed, it 
must have been removed almost as soon as it 
was laid down. 

A neighbouring policeman, to whom I resorted 
more for comfort than for vengeance, gave me 
no sympathy. "I can report it," he said; "but 
what's' the use? This is a terrible neighbour- 
hood for sneak thieves." 

What I want is to know more about the 
sneak-thief in question. Not for purposes of 
prosecution, in the least, but to satisfy curiosity. 
I want to know how he views life. Is he aware 
that he is an enemy of society, or does he pur- 
loin instinctively and without thought? Does 
he know that he is a traitor to the human 
family, or has he drugged his conscience with 
sophistries? Have the Commandments no 
meaning for him whatever? Has he no fear of 
hell fire? And how does he feel about me, 
destitute of the new property to which I was 
entitled by purchase? Or does he guess that I 
stole it too? Does he think about the owners 
of his booty at all, or are all his thoughts 
directed to realizing the proceeds and evading 
capture ? 

And this brings me to a more personal ques- 
tion: Had I seen him carrying the door-mat oflF, 
what should I have done? The answer is easy: 
I should have done nothing. Whatever else out 
[144] 



Thoughts on Theft 

of my natural line I might be led in a moment 
of excitement to do, no provocation would cause 
me to run down Sloane Street after a retreating 
door-mat, crying "Stop thief!" But if, by 
any freakish chance, I had pursued, it would 
have been less to regain the door-mat than to 
learn more of what the Americans call the 
"mentality" of the bandit. In short, to ex- 
amine his bumps. 

To thieve does not happen to be one of the 
temptations that beset me — there are plenty 
left without it — and therefore when I came to 
examine this fellow's bumps I should probably 
find a disparity between his head and my own in 
the region of acquisitiveness; but otherwise we 
might be exactly similar. For the odd thing — 
and the sinister thing — is that people who steal 
are so very like the people who don't, are so 
very nearly normal. Or can it be that it is 
really they who are normal and we who are 
not? 

I can understand that in the early days the 
transition from the state when all things were 
free, to the state when rights of property came 
in, must have been so gradual as to be almost 
imperceptible, so that no one failing to notice 
the change ought to be considered as very 
wicked. Adam and Eve, of course, took where 
they would. Abel and Cain and Seth took 

[145] 



Giving and Receiving 

where they would, and so for a while did their 
mysteriously engendered descendants. But 
then, one day, one of them, taking, as usual 
and without thought, where he would, was 
pulled up very short by a commanding voice 
bidding him drop it. "Don't you know this is 
my land and everything on it is mine?" the 
voice said ; and at that moment theft was born ; 
and it was so little different from the natural 
processes of the moment immediately preceding 
that no wonder there was born at the same time 
a confusion so complete that it still exists. 

And the law's attitude to theft has become 
so perplexingly lenient too. The other day, for 
instance, a Harley Street physician attended at 
a police court to ask that the two boys who 
had recently abstracted his rug from his car, 
while he was visiting a patient, should merely 
be caned and warned, and not punished further. 
But when he had preferred his request, he was 
told by the magistrate that it was he who was 
really to blame, by leaving his car unprotected ! 
In other words, it is not those who thieve who 
are reprehensible, but those who do not guard 
their property. 

Providence in its infinite wisdom does now 
and then make it awkward for the primitive- 
minded ! To give mankind empty stomachs 
[146] 



Thoughts on Theft 

and two hands, and also ownership rights and 
lawyers, is to ask for trouble. 

Meanwhile, what are we to do about theft? 
Because, even if it is understandable, it is no 
less a treachery to civilisation; and there is 
little doubt that it is on the increase. I read 
the other day some statistics which were appall- 
ing, and which included a new social danger 
consisting of ten thousand motor-car thieves. 
Personally I would as soon steal a railway train 
as a motor-car, having no wish to own either 
or to do anything with them but make use of 
them and quickly leave them; but tastes differ. 
My own enterprise in peculation would be con- 
fined to pictures: Number 3214, for instance, in 
the National Gallery. But there is always 
some fellow looking. . . . 

Various reasons for the growth of stealing 
have been put forward. The movies, of course: 
such a film as "Alias Jimmy Valentine," where 
an attractive scamp, after an exciting career as 
a burglar, is called upon, Avhile "making good," 
to employ his skill at safe-breaking to rescue a 
child locked inside, so that he becomes a hero as 
well as a reformed character. I saw this a 
few weeks ago, and can quite understand how 
it might stimulate the youthful breast. And 
then there is "Raffles." And the War, of course, 

[147] 



Giving and Receiving 

is largely blamed. If officers and gentlemen 
winked at the batmen who, during hostilities, 
set plump chickens on the table every evening, 
how are those batmen, now at home again, to 
think too seriously of the distinctions between 
meum and tuum when they want something for 
themselves? A door-mat, for example. In 
war many of the safeguards of society go; 
honesty very early. Necessity knows no law. 
Our future mood, I suppose, should be one of 
eternal gratitude that we never invaded the 
enemy's country, because, if we had, the loot 
habit might by now be so widely spread that 
nothing would be safe. 

But it is not impossible that the War's con- 
tribution to the increase of theft was its ten- 
dency to make us all more natural. That is a 
disturbing thought, if you like. 



[148] 



HONOURS EASY 



NOT very long ago the following advertise- 
ments appeared in the same column of 
The Southshire Daily Gazette: 

"Lost, a pure black Pekinese dog, wearing a silver 
badge marked 'Cherub.' Handsome reward offered. 
F. B., Grand Hotel, Brightbourne." 

"Found, a black Pekinese, wearing a silver badge 
marked 'Cherub.' No reward required. The Limea, 
Cheviot Road, Brightbourne." 



On the same morning the paper was opened 
and scanned almost simultaneously by Mrs. 
Frederick Bathurst in the sitting-room which 
she and her husband occupied at the Grand 
Hotel, and by Mr. Hartley Friend in the morn- 
ing room at "The Limes." 

"Oh, Fred," exclaimed Mrs. Bathurst, 
"Cherub has been found. He's all safe at a 
house called 'The Limes,' in Cheviot Road. 
Isn't that splendid.^" 

[149] 



Giving and Receiving 

"Very good news," said her husband. "I 
told you not to worry." 

"It's a direct answer to prayer/' said Mrs. 
Bathurst. "But " 

"But what?" her husband inquired. 

"But I do wish you had taken my advice 
not to offer any reward. You might so easily 
have left it open. People aren't so mercenary 
as all that. It stands to reason that any one 
staying at an hotel like this and bringing a dog 
with them — always an expensive thing to do — 
and valuing it enough to advertise its loss, 
would behave properly when the time came." 

"I don't know," Mr. Bathurst replied. "Does 
anything stand to reason ? The ordinary dog 
thief, holding up an animal to ransom, might be 
deterred from returning it if no mention of 
money was made. You remember we decided on 
that." 

"Oh, no, I don't think so. You merely had 
your own way again; that was all. I was 
always against offering a reward. And the 
word 'handsome' too. So reckless ! In any case 
I never agreed to that. You put that in later. 
Another thing," Mrs. Bathurst continued, "I 
knew it in some curious way — in my bones, as 
they say — that the fineness of Cherub's nature, 
its innocence, its radiant friendliness, would 
overcome any sordidness in the person who 
[150] 



Honours Easy- 
found him, poor darling, all lost and unhappy. 
No one who has been much with that simple 
sweet character could fail to be the better 
for it." 

Mr. Bathurst coughed. 

"Don't you agree.''" his wife asked. 

"Well," said Mr. Bathurst, after helping 
himself to another egg, "let us hope so, at any 
rate." 

"It's gone beyond mere hope," said his wife 
triumphantly. "Listen to this"; and she read 
out the sentence from the second advertisement, 
" 'No reward required.' There," she added, 
"isn't that proof? I'll go round to Cheviot 
Road directly after breakfast and say how grate- 
ful we are, and bring the darling back." 



Ill 



Meanwhile at "The Limes" Mr. Hartley 
Friend was pacing the room with impatient 
steps. 

"I do wish you would try to be less impul- 
sive," he was saying to his wife. "Anything 
in the nature of business you would be so 
much wiser to leave to me." 

"What is it now.''" Mrs. Friend asked with 
perfect placidity. 

"This dog," said her husband, "that fastened 

[151] 



Giving and Receiving 

itself on you in this deplorable way — whatever 
possessed you to rush into print about it?" 

"Of course I rushed, as you say. Think of 
the feelings of the poor woman who has lost 
her pet. It was the only kind thing to do." 

" 'Poor woman' indeed ! I assure you she's 
nothing of the sort. One would think you were 
a millionaire to be ladling out benefactions like 
this. 'No reward required.' Fancy not even 
asking for the price of the advertisement to be 
refunded!" 

"But that would have been so squalid." 

" 'Squalid !' I've no patience with you. 
Justice isn't squalor. It's — it's justice. As 
for your 'poor woman,' listen to this." And he 
read out the Bathurst advertisement with ter- 
rible emphasis on the words "Handsome reward 
oifered." "Do you hear that — 'handsome'.^" 

"Yes, I hear," said his wife amiably; "but 
that isn't my idea of making money." 

"I hope you don't suppose it's mine," said her 
husband. "But there is such a thing as common 
sense. Why on earth the accident of this little 
brute following us home should run us into the 
expense of an advertisement and a certain 
amount of food and drink I'm hanged if I can 
see." 

"Well, dear," said his wife with the same 
[152] 



Honours Easy 

amiability, "if you can't see it I can't make 
you." 

IV 

A few minutes later the arrival of "a lady 
who's come for the Peek" was announced by 
"The Limes" parlourmaid. 

"No/' said Mr. Friend as his wife rose, 
"leave it to me. I'll deal with it. The situa- 
tion is very delicate." 

"How can I thank you enough," began Mrs. 
Bathurst, "for being so kind and generous about 
our little angel.'' My husband and I agreed 
that nothing more charmingly considerate can 
ever have been done." 

At this point Mrs. Friend followed her hus- 
band into the room, and Mrs. Bathurst renewed 
her expressions of gratitude. 

"But at any rate," she added to her, "you 
will permit me to defray the cost of the adver- 
tisement? I could not allow you to be at that 
expense." 

Before Mrs. Friend could speak her husband 
intervened. "No, madam," he said, "I couldn't 
think of it. Please don't let the mention of 
money vulgarize a little friendly act like this. 
We are only too glad to have been the means of 
reuniting you and your pet." 

[153] 



TEMPTATION 

TEMPTATION is a theme on which, in 
mixed company, people are only partially 
candid; but one can extract some amusing con- 
fidences none the less. 

"My greatest temptation," said a pretty lady, 
"occurred last winter. I was on the Riviera, 
staying in an hotel that I did not much fancy 
and spending far too much time in wondering 
why I had ever come away from an honest cold 
climate in order to be mocked by the ghost of 
sunshine. You know the feeling." 

Every one seemed to know it. 

"Well, one evening, after I had been there a 
few days, some friends arrived at their villa near 
by and I was asked to dine there. I had bought 
a model or two in Paris on the way down, and 
I dressed with a good deal of pleasure and an- 
ticipation of a little fun at last. But all that 
feeling evaporated when I came to put on my 
rings. I had some special ones for such occa- 
sions, and I told my maid — she was a recent 
acquisition — I would wear those. 

"She laid out two or three. 
[154] 



Temptation 

" 'No/ I said, not those — the emerald and 
the ruby.' 

" 'But these are all/ she said. 

" 'AH !' I cried. 'What can you mean ? 
Aren't the emerald and the ruby there.? And 
the diamond hoop?' 

"There was no sign of them! 

"I was stupefied. Sooner or later, I suppose, 
every one is robbed; it is a rule of life; but it 
had never before happened to me. 

"I was insured right enough, but the rings 
were very precious to me. I hated to lose them. 

"We searched the jewel-case through and 
through, looked in every likely and unlikely 
place, and then I sent for the manager. 

"He was polite; he would make inquiries; 
but he could not believe that the theft had been 
committed under his roof. Was I sure I had 
brought them with me.? Ladies sometimes 
made mistakes. 

"Yes, I was sure. 

"Had I no suspicions ? — this with a glance at 

the maid. 

"I was confident that the theft was by a 

stranger, 

."Very well. But there was a rule as to en- 
trusting jewels at the office safe. However, he 
would do what he could. If I would give par- 
ticulars he would tell the police. 

[155] 



Giving and Receiving 

"So I wrote out a minute description of each 
missing ring, and went off to dinner feeling 
utterly wretched and forlorn. 

"The next day I saw police officials endlessly, 
and my poor maid was examined and cross- 
examined by them, and I was conscious that 
every servant in the place viewed me with dis- 
like, for I had made them all suspect. 

"But nothing resulted. There was no trace 
of the thieves, and I hurried back to London to 
tell the insurance people and leave the rest to 
them. 

"More interviews followed, and I must say 
that next to the pets at Scotland Yard who give 
you back your umbrella, insurance people are 
the dearest creatures in the world. In course 
of time I received a cheque in compensation 
and the matter was closed." 

She stopped. 

"But where was the temptation?" some one 
asked. 

"I'm coming to that," she said. "I received 
the cheque by an evening post, and the next day 
I went down to the bank to pay it in in person, 
and, having done so, I asked for a box of valu- 
ables that I keep there." 

The pretty lady paused again. 

"Well?" we all asked. 

"Well," she said, "they brought me the box to 
[156] 



Temptation 

the waiting-room, and the first thing I saw when 
I opened it was one of the lost rings, and there, 
underneath, were the others." 

"Good Heavens !" some one said. 

"Yes, there they were. I had carefully de- 
posited them there before I went away and now 
for the first time remembered it. How one's 
memory could play one such a trick is a mystery, 
but that seems to be what memories are for — to 
let one down. 

"You see the temptation now," she resumed. 
"All the way home I had it before me. No one 
but I knew about the rings ; the insurance people 
need never discover; if I liked to be dishonest I 
could have the rings and the money too." 

She stopped altogether. 

"By Jove, yes I" some one said, and a great 
silence prevailed. 

There is a silly ass at most parties of any 
size, and we had ours, and he rushed in, as 
usual, where angels had too much taste to tread. 

"And what did you do.^" he asked eagerly. 



[157] 



THE WARDROBE 

ONCE upon a time there was a wardrobe in 
which a man's clothes were kept, the coats 
and waistcoats hanging over wooden holders and 
the trousers from clips. It was large enough 
for all his various suits, morning and evening; 
and they were all on fairly good terms with each 
other, even if the Harris tweeds were a little 
clannish and the frock-coat a little superior. 
This was because the frock-coat had been to a 
garden-party at Buckingham Palace; for the 
owner of the clothes, you must know, was what 
is called a man about town, who had time and 
opportunity to do the correct thing. 

The oldest suit in the wardrobe was one of the 
Harris tweeds. It had been there for fifteen 
years and was still worn on holidays. It knew 
all, from the "Station Master's Garden" at St. 
Andrews, to the little cemetery at the foot of 
the Mullion links. Its age and its Scottish 
sagacity made it the natural head of the com- 
pany, and its advice was often asked, but, owing 
to the difficulty of following its Highland accent, 
was taken only by chance. 

It was an exciting moment for the clothes 
every morning when their master's valet opened 
[158]. 



The Wardrobe 

the door and took out a pair of trousers. He 
always took the trousers first and the coat and 
waistcoat a few minutes later; but the choice 
of the trousers told what the coat and waistcoat 
would be. In the few minutes there was no 
end of chatter. 

"Hullo! it's golf to-day," the others would 
say, as the knickerbockers disappeared. Or "A 
luncheon-party, I think," if it were one of the 
pair of trousers worn with the frock-coat. 

"I hope there'll be some nice dresses to talk 
to," the frock-coat would say if it was his turn. 
Sometimes the waistcoat would be left behind, 
and then they would know it was a wedding or 
other festival and one of the white waistcoats 
from a drawer would be needed. 

"I don't care much for weddings," said the 
frock-coat. "Although there's always a lot of 
company, it's usually too new to be interesting, 
straight from the tailor's and the dressmaker's. 
But what I most resent is the confetti." 

"Ay, mon," the Harris tweeds replied, "that's 
where we hae the advantage over ye. Rain, 
snow, hail, confetti, rice — it's all one tae us. 
We're the only sensible practical suitings amang 
ye. But it must be awfu', seeing the guid 
wholesome rice being wasted." 

"Economy ! what a boring theme !" a fancy 
waistcoat remarked. 

[159] 



Giving and Receiving 

It was also always an exciting moment when 
a new suit was hung in the wardrobe, because 
the new clothes brought tidings of the tailor's — 
the old homestead, so to speak — and there were 
countless questions as to who had cut it, who had 
stitched it, what changes there were in the staff, 
and so on. 

In the evening, when their master came back, 
the excitement was confined to the dress-suit and 
the dinner-suit — which would it be? Would 
there be beautiful dresses and therefore the long 
tails and a white waistcoat, or just men only and 
a short jacket? Not that other men's clothes 
are so dull: dinner-jacket can have a vast deal 
of gossip to retail to dinner-jacket; but full fig 
is more amusing. You see, some of the new 
gowns have delicious Parisian scandal to unfold, 
and even the less discreet can be counted upon 
for revelations of their wearers. It was well 
to keep in with daddy long-tails, as he was 
called, if you wanted to have these stories re- 
peated to you. 

As the week wore on another excitement de- 
veloped, for the great question which then began 
to exercise the clothes was — "Is he going away 
from Saturday to Monday, or not? And, if so, 
what will he take?" The actual packing they 
did not like at all: being jammed together in a 
bag is no joke; but it was all right when they 
[160] 



The Wardrobe 

were unpacked amid the new surroundings. It 
was interesting too to see what kind of valets or 
maids there were, and if they were rougher 
with the brush than their own James was, or 
more gentle. James had a savage way of casti- 
gating them. 

But when I say that all the clothes were agi- 
tated by this week-end proble;n I am wrong. 
There were, of course, those that were out of 
season — they knew that their time could not 
come again just yet — and there was the pair 
of black trousers at the back, which could never 
go out unless some one had died. They were 
very seldom wanted, although the door never 
opened without giving them a little shock; but 
once — it was during a bad influenza epidemic — 
the black pair had been out three times in a fort- 
night. How they talked about it ! 

And then one day the man himself died, al- 
though the clothes did not know for quite a 
long while that this had happened. He had 
often been ill before and had not needed them, 
and this might be the case now. They won- 
dered exceedingly what was going on, but James 
never came near, and so there was no chance 
of discovering by asking his coat. Ordinarily 
they liked it when James (and his brush) 
stayed away, but not this time. 

It is a terrible day for wardrobes when their 

[161] 



Giving and Receiving 

owners die and they fall into the hands of the 
people who buy such things. I say "buy," but 
that is a slip: ladies' and gentlemen's wardrobes 
are not "bought/' as any advertisement column 
will tell you: they are "purchased." These 
clothes were the perquisites of James, who, be- 
ing a little brisk fattish man, entirely the wrong 
shape, had no personal use for any of them, and 
so he transferred the whole lot to a dealer. 

It was then that their agonies set in. They 
were marked at prices disgracefully below their 
cost; they were handled and tried on; they were 
depreciated by intending purchasers and ex- 
tolled without any truth at all by the dealer, 
who said that they had been the property of a 
Duke who was moving to the tropics ; they were 
bargained over and at last sold. And that was 
not the worst, for many of them were altered — 
and oh, how clothes hate that ! In every case 
there was a distressing social fall. 

Only the Harris tweeds were happy. They 
did not care who wore them so long as they 
were worn and were out in the open air again. 



[162] 



REUNION 

ONCE upon a time there was a man who 
spent far too much time in Beauchamp 
Place and kindred haunts, looking for odds and 
ends; by which he meant all kinds of articles 
which our ancestors had real use for, but which 
we merely hang up on the walls or set on the 
mantelpiece: dishes, plates, cups and saucers, 
glasses, finger-bowls, pistols, trivets, paper- 
weights, pestles and mortars, apothecaries' jars, 
even skewers and punch-ladles. Such things 
filled his rooms, but, although the rooms were 
full to congestion, their owner was continually 
bringing in something new, and it was always 
"decorative" or "quaint," to use his favourite 
words, and sometimes both, but too often only 
quaint. 

They had been changing hands for a century 
and more and would certainly continue to do so; 
the metal ware without any doubt at all, and the 
crockery and porcelain possibly if not probably. 
Oh, how old crockery and porcelain shudders 
and squirms when light-hearted maid-servants, 
with their thoughts on other things, chiefly their 
evening out, lift them and begin to dust! You 

[163] 



Giving and Receiving 

have no idea. But the pistols and the swords, 
the ancient fire-irons and brass receptacles — 
they are apathetic. 

When midnight came and their tongues were 
loosened {vide Hans Christian Andersen and 
other authorities) you cannot conceive what a 
babel there was. The man bought so much that 
the life of his odds and ends was really quite 
exciting, with constant newcomers to listen to: 
exciting, that is, for all but those who wanted 
to do all the talking and resented competition. 

"Where did you come from?" was the first 
question always put to the latest arrival. 

And then: "What did you cost?" 

"I came from 'The Merchant Adventurers,' " 
said, one night, a Bristol blue decanter. 

"How much were you?" 

"I was thirty-five shillings," it answered with 
very perceptible pride. "I've been going up 
steadily for years. Do you know, when I first 
left home — I was in a cottage in Gloucester- 
shire, near Stanway — I was only half-a-crown. 
A dealer who pretended he was a cyclist in need 
of tea bought me. And then I was in a shop 
in Cheltenham, where I fetched half-a-sovereign. 
Another dealer from London bought me, and I 
went to a shop in Bloomsbury, where I was a 
pound, and then I travelled westwards and went 
up to thirty-five shillings. Isn't it wonderful?" 
[164] 



Reunion 

But it isn't with any cheerful blue glass 
decanter that this history is concerned, but with 
a certain morose warming-pan. 

You must understand that all the odds and 
ends so decorative and quaint that litter the 
rooms of these curio-hunters nourish a griev- 
ance. And that grievance is that they are 
always idle. They hate being just ornamental; 
they want to be at their own jobs again. It 
never occurred to the man that there could be 
any discontent among his rarities, but if he had 
had sharper ears or more imagination he would 
have known that they were all spoiling for work 
once more. Dishes and plates like to be eaten 
from; cups like to contain hot tea; paper- 
weights prefer to be holding down paper; pis- 
tols are miserable unless they now and then go 
off; and punch-ladles consider every moment 
lost that is not spent in ladling punch. 

But of all the unemployed articles in the 
room, that which most resented its foolish lazy 
life was the warming-pan. There it hung on 
the wall for ever, with no fire in its great copper 
receptacle, no bustling housewife to grip its 
handle and thrust it about between the sheets, 
not even a bed in sight; its sole occupation was 
to be decorative and quaint. 
"Of all the rot!" it used to say. 

[165] 



Giving and Receiving 

"Bed-warmers should warm beds," it would 
mutter. 

"Hanging on a drawing-room wall doing noth- 
ing," it would grumble with profundities of 
scorn. 

The worst of it was that this forced sloth had 
impaired its temper, and it consorted with none 
of the others. 

"Not a soul I care to waste my words on/' it 
would complain. 

And then one day the man led triumphantly 
into the room two workmen, one carrying a pole 
and the other an electric lamp, and after much 
hindering from the man (who was a fuss-bud- 
get), the lamp was at length firmly established 
on the pole and connected with a switch. 

"Splendid !" said the man, and he tipped each 
of the assistants half-a-crown. 

"What have we got here,^" thought the warm- 
ing-pan. "More nonsense. I'm blest if he 
hasn't torn away a bedpost from a four poster 
to stick his old lamp on !" 

And then he looked more narrowly and saw 
that the post was from the very bed that he used 
to warm every night for years and years all that 
long time ago. 

And the bedpost recognized the warming-pan 
and twinkled with joy. (You have heard about 
the twinkling of a bedpost, haven't you.'') 
[166] 



Reunion 

"Oh, my dear," said the warming-pan di- 
rectly twelve o'clock struck that night — "oh, my 
dear, you can't think how glad I am to see 
you !" 



[167] 



IN THE PADDED SEATS 

i: THE COWARDLY CONSUMER 

1HAD just made a selection of the remarks 
that fall naturally from the tongue when a 
match without a head is drawn from the box, 
and I added the statement that the headless 
match is becoming increasingly common. The 
result was that we drifted into a discussion on 
the general inferiority of everything — inferior 
workmanship everj'^where and the lowering of 
all standards of quality. The bequest of the 
War, we once again agreed. 

"But it isn't only the War," said our tame 
philosopher. "The War is blamed for every- 
thing. But my memory is sufficiently long and 
accurate to enable me to assure you that there 
was a good deal of shoddiness in England even 
before 1914. That couldn't be the fault of the 
War. What was it, then.''" 

To his intense satisfaction no one had any 
reason to suggest, and he therefore was free to 
supply his own. 

"I'll tell you," he said. "It's our national 
soft-heartedness that's to blame. That's why 
[168] 



In the Padded Seats 

almost everything is second-rate. The 'Two 
Nations' into which we might be divided are the 
Crafty Producers and the Cowardly Consumers. 
For all our bluster and nonsense about never 
being slaves, we are cowards at heart, incapable 
of insisting on our rights. We may be brave 
for others, but we're worms for ourselves." 

"But are we}" some one indignantly in- 
quired. 

"Well, I am, for one," said the philosopher. 
"I wish I could say otherwise, but I can't. My 
soft heart is the most infernal bore. It fills me 
with respect for other people's feelings and an 
unwillingness to wound that are not only abso- 
lutely retrograde and obscurantist, but amount 
to treachery to the community." 

"But why? It sounds delightful to be so 
understanding and considerate." 

"In the abstract it may be, but in real life it 
produces inferiority at every turn. One never 
gets the best." 

"But why, if you know, do you put up with 
it?" 

"It's because such sympathetic ways are al- 
ways establishing with people closer relations 
than are wise. I get on intimate terms too 
quickly. And the next thing is that I and the 
others who are like me — and we are a danger- 
ously numerous class — are imposed upon." 

[169] 



Giving and Receiving 

"Can't you protest?" 

"Protest ! No. We haven't the pluck. Our 
fatal alloy of pity begins to work — our terror 
lest anything said or done by us should cause 
distress. I'll give you an example. I've been 
going to the same tailor for years, and every 
time I go to him he gets worse. Look at this 
coat." 

We looked at it with disapproval. 

"Well, I can't change and go somewhere else. 
It's impossible. The tailor and I have been too 
friendly. I should lie awake at night filled with 
remorse and misery. And I'm not unique. As 
a matter of fact I believe I'm normal. It's 
because the majority of English people are like 
this that the quality of things is so poor. I've 
just been stajing in the worst hotel I was ever 
in, but do you suppose I said anything about 
it? Not a syllable; I endured it; and all be- 
cause I allowed myself to feel sorry for the 
waiter downstairs and the chambermaid upstairs. 
You may, all of you, look stern now and affect 
to think me an idiot, but I'll bet you'd have 
been about the same. It's in the national blood. 
We're cowards, we English, we haven't got 
hearts of oak at all: our heads very possibly; but 
our hearts are made of the wood of the weeping 
willow. 

"Another thing," he went on. "The clever 
[170] 



In the Padded Seats 

ones know about it and take advantage. I don't 
say they know it consciously, but sub-con- 
sciously. I'll give you an instance. The other 
day in a restaurant I summoned up courage and 
sent for the manager and, very nicely, pointed 
out that really I couldn't eat what was set be- 
fore me. I would like to, but I couldn't. He 
was full of apologies. He took it away and in 
about five minutes returned with a special dish, 
which he said he had superintended himself. 
It was disgusting — far more disgusting than 
the last — but under his eye I simulated relish. 
And all the while I was asking myself, 'Does 
he know I'm so weak that I couldn't complain 
again to save my life.'' Has he really tried to 
please me? Or is it the same dish with some- 
thing foul added, and do they all know it, and 
are they silently giggling as they watch me pre- 
tending to enjoy it.''' " 

We made sounds expressive of our compas- 
sion for him. 

"It's all very well," he said, "to be sorry for 
me and perhaps to despise me. I despise my- 
self. But I know there's not one among you 
who wouldn't have put up the same pretence. 
We're all like this. We're all soft-hearted. A 
kind word can buy us. Even the Crafty Pro- 
ducers, when they become Consumers, are the 
same; they are cravens too. Nothing can ever 

[171] 



Giving and Receiving 

improve in England until ruthlessness comes in. 
We shall go on being robbed by shopkeepers 
and poisoned by restaurateurs and insulted by 
theatrical managers and reduced to madness 
by the Post Master General. Nothing can be 
done until our hearts harden." 

"But if, as you say," some one said, "the 
majority of English people are like you and go 
about being sentimentally compassionate and 
tolerating and forgiving and forgetting, how did 
we ever become the conquering race?" 

"Ah!" was the reply, "that's the mystery." 

II : PUBLIC SPIRIT 

We were talking — having finished with poli- 
tics and other current events — about the duties 
of a good citizen, and the conspicuous ease with 
which they were now being avoided. 

"Why do you say 'now'.^" some one asked. 

"Because since the War so much pride has 
disappeared," said our leading Jeremiah. 
"Everything is shirked by unconscientious 
workmen." 

"I wish," murmured the doctor, "some one 

would write a book saying what England before 

the War was really like. The way people talk 

you'd think it was sheer Paradise, but I seem 

[172] 



In the Padded Seats 

to remember a lot of unsatisfactory things even 
then." 

"The worst of being a good citizen/' said the 
artist, "is that you get so landed. Any man 
who goes out of his way to be public-spirited 
runs horrible risks. That's why there are so 
few of us." 

"'Us'.'' What do you mean by 'us'?" a 
scornful voice inquired. 

"The public-spirited people," the artist re- 
joined in surprised tones. "Those rare souls 
who put the good of the community before self- 
indulgence. I happen to be one of them, and I 
am suffering accordingly. If there were the 
faintest indication that you would like to hear 
the story I would tell it. I might even tell it if 
there were none." 

We composed ourselves to listen. 

"Every one," he said, "must have noticed that 
taxi-drivers just now are a new set of men, who 
know very little about London. Once upon a 
time there was a strict examination in topog- 
raphy at Scotland Yard, and if a would-be 
driver couldn't give the direct route from, say, 
the Brixton Bon Marche to the Golders Green 
Empire he was put back a week or so for further 
study of the map. There was an excellent 
mechanic that I was interested in who was 

[173] 



Giving and Receiving 

ploughed three times. But all that care seems 
to have gone by the board, and now we have 
taxi-drivers who know nothing." 

Every one leaned forward to cite personal 
experiences that proved this, but the artist con- 
trived to hold the floor. 

"I was driven the other day," he went on, "by 
one who was so grossly indirect in the route he 
followed that I felt I must do a thing I hate 
doing — I felt that I must put my foot down. I 
was a silly ass, of course. Sensible people don't 
interfere; they grin and bear it, or they don't 
grin but bear it. Every now and then, however, 
one feels that one must take a line. It's like 
writing to the papers, and calling yourself Pro 
Bono Publico. The desire to do that comes on 
most men once, I suppose; but that's a very 
easy imitation of responsible citizenship com- 
pared with what was demanded of me. 

"To make a short story long, I sat in the cab 
summoning up pluck enough to give the man 
something less than his fare and a lecture on his 
incompetence. I would remind him of the police 
regulation which compels a taxi to take the 
shortest route, and I would then hand him my 
card and tell him to take out a summons for the 
full fare. I had never given a card in this way 
before, and I rather liked the idea of it. But 
at the same time, being a shocking coward, I 
[174] 



In the Padded Seats 

shrank from the whole thing. It only shows 
what an absolutely artificial exotic this public 
spirit is, and how it has to be cultivated. 

"Well, I got out of the cab with my card and 
the money all ready; but when I had a good 
look at the size of the man I weakened again. 
Yet I had to go on. It was a matter of pride, 
and pride, I take it, is four-fifths of most 
courage. 

" 'You don't know your London,' I said. 
'Your duty is to go by the shortest and most 
direct route, and you've come the longest.' 

"His expression, which had begun with sur- 
prise, changed to dark hostility. 

" 'Who's come by the longest way?' he asked, 
and I was forced into the contemptible position 
of having to reply that he had. It was going to 
be an ordinary 'You're another' squabble. 

" 'How }' he then asked, pushing his face into 
mine and glaring with an awful malignity. 

"It was just this kind of question that I 
wanted to avoid. My idea had been to hand 
him the money and the card swiftly and deci- 
sively and leave him to ponder on his folly while 
the lesson sank in. I would have given a fiver 
for the comfort of a policeman, but there was 
none in sight. 

"I braced myself again and went through 
with it. 'Never mind how,' I said. 'You've 

[175] 



Giving and Receiving 

driven me so far out of the right course that I'm 
not going to pay more than this, and if you 
think you're entitled to any more you must 
summons me'; and I thrust the coin and the 
card into his hand, leapt up the steps and 
banged my door. 

"When I got inside I sat down in the hall 
and felt my heart beating like an hydraulic ram. 
Every second I expected to hear a double knock 
on the door. Indeed, I shouldn't have been 
surprised if it had been kicked open, for he was 
a powerful man. 

"But nothing happened, and after a while I 
crept upstairs, a physical and nervous wreck. 
Still, I had the knowledge that I had done my 
duty. I had been a citizen. I don't say I 
glowed, but I was conscious of rectitude." 

He paused. 

Then he resumed. "But now," he said, "I've 
lost all that feeling." 

"Why.''" we asked. 

"Because," he said, "I daren't take a cab any 
more. I'm so terrified that the driver might 
turn out to be that one that I creep about on 
foot or straphang. It's like Captain Hook and 
the crocodile. I came here this evening in an 
omnibus, in which I was one of five men cling- 
ing to the ceiling. No, no more public spirit. 
Finished." 
[176] 



In the Padded Seats 

"Poor old chap !" said our leading cynic. 
"And he's not even got the reclame he'd have 
got from the case if the driver had summonsed 
him !" 

IIi: BEFORE AND AFTER 

We were once again, for the thousandth time, 
discussing pre-war and post-war conditions, 
when the Colonel came in and placed himself 
with some care on the cushioned fender which, 
even without any assistance from half-pay of- 
ficers, succeeds in keeping most of the heat of 
the fire from the rest of the room. 

The Colonel listened to the talk for some time 
and then informed us that the best example of 
pre-war and post-war differences that had ever 
come under any one's notice had come under his 
own. Before he could be asked to relate the 
occurrence he was already relating it. 

"It was somewhere about IQIO," he said, 
"and we had been living for several years in a 
rambling old place in Kent. It was near Ash- 
ford; very good country, but the house was low- 
lying and, having a horror of rheumatism, we 
decided to move to London. So we went up to 
town and saw various agents and at last settled 
on a house in Kensington. 

"Having fixed it up and put the decorators 
in we went back to Ashford to prepare for the 

[177] 



Giving and Receiving 

move. It must have been about a week later 
that I was called out of the garden to meet a 
stranger who gave no name but said he had come 
from London on purpose to see me. 

"One has one's weak moments, and I went. 

"I found him in my study — an ordinary-look- 
ing man with a bowler hat, who was a shade too 
deferential in manner. He handed me his card 
— So-and-so, Family Butcher, somewhere in 
Notting Hill. Hearing that we were moving 
into his neighbourhood, he said, he had come 
down to solicit the honour of purveying the best 
English mutton and Scotch beef to my house- 
hold. They say 'purvey,' but Heaven knows 
why it's a better word than 'provide' or 'supply.' 

"Well, as I didn't know anything about 
butchers in London, and as he had taken the 
trouble to come all that way to ask for our 
custom, I said we would try him; and he went 
off much gratified, leaving his card on my man- 
tel-piece. 

"A week later another fellow called in just 
the same way. I saw him too — the same type 
exactly: bowler hat and apologetics. But 
this time I wouldn't let him begin; I got in 
first. 

" 'You're a Kensington butcher,' I said, 'and 
you have come all the way from town to solicit 
the honour of purveying the best English mut- 
[178] 



In the Padded Seats 

ton and Scotch beef to my household when we 
move to Campden Hill.' 

"He admitted it. 

" 'But you're too late,' I said ; 'you've lost 
by a week.' 

"I gave him a drink by way of a solatium and 
we had a little talk. I asked him how they 
discovered who the new tenants were, and he 
said that they got the information from the 
agents. Directly they saw the 'Let' notice up 
they made inquiries. 

" 'And how far would you go for a new cus- 
tomer.'*' I asked him. 'Ashford is nearly sixty 
miles, and then there's the cab to my house, and 
you must get lunch somewhere. That all costs 
money, and you'd have to stick it on the joints 
like anything to get it back. How far would 
you go.f"' 

"He said that for a good customer he'd go any 
distance. Customers were what they wanted. 
There was terrible competition for them. 

"And then he got into his cab and returned to 
town with his tail between his legs. 

"Well," said the Colonel, "we moved, and 
we got our meat from the first fellow, and he 
was all right. We stuck to him until we left in 
191 8 and went to Reigate." 

He braced himself for his denouement. "Not 
long ago," he continued, "I came up to see my 

[179] 



Giving and Receiving 

sister in the Cromwell Road, and while I was 
there some people telephoned inviting them- 
selves to lunch, and as the household was short- 
handed and busy I volunteered to go out and 
get the necessary cutlets. 

"Would you believe it, the very first butcher 
I came to was the fellow who had come to Ash- 
ford a week too late, the fellow who would go 
almost any distance for a customer; I recog- 
nized him in a twinkling, although he had a blue 
apron on and several years had passed. 

" 'I want some cutlets,' I said. 

" 'Are you one of our regular customers?' he 
asked. 

" 'No,' I said. 

" 'Then I'm sorry but I can't serve you/ he 
replied. 

"Can you beat it?" 

IV : TIGHT CORNERS 

The talk was running on the critical situa- 
tions in which we had found ourselves — those 
of us whose lives were adventurous enough to 
comprise any. 

One man had been caught by the tide in Brit- 
tany and escaped by the skin of his teeth. An- 
other had been on an elephant when a wounded 
tiger charged at it. A third had been on the 
[180J 



In the Padded Seats 

top storey of a burning house. A fourth was 
torpedoed in the War. 

"But you all talk," said one of the company, 
"as though tight corners were always physical 
affairs. Surely they can be tighter when they 
are mental. The tightest corner I was ever in 
was at Christie's." 
"Christie's?" 

"Yes. I had been lunching rather well at a 
club in St. James's Street with an old friend 
from abroad, and passing along King Street 
afterwards, he persuaded me to look in at the 
sale-room. The place was full. They were 
selling Barbizon pictures, and getting tremens 
dous sums for each: two thousand, three thou- 
sand, for little bits of things— forest scenes, 
pools at evening, shepherdesses, the regular 
subjects. Nothing went for three figures at all. 
Well, we watched for a little while and then I 
found myself bidding too— just for fun. I had 
exactly sixty-three pounds in the bank and not 
enough securities to borrow five hundred on, 
and here I was nodding away to the auctioneer 
like a bloatocrat. 

" 'You'll get caught,' my friend said to me. 
" 'No, I shan't,' I said. 'I'm not going to 
run any risks.' 

"And for a long time I didn't. And then a 
picture was put up and a short red-faced man in 

[181] 



Giving and Receiving 

a new top-hat — some well-known dealer — who 
had bought quite a number, electrified the room 
by starting the bidding at a figure a little 
higher than any that he had yet given or that 
anything had reached. Although the previous 
lots had run into four figures they had all been 
modestly started at fifty guineas or a hundred 
guineas, with a gradual crescendo to which I 
had often been safely contributing. But no 
sooner was the new picture displayed than the 
dealer made his sensational bid, 'Four thousand 
guineas,' he said. 

"There was a rustle of excitement, and at the 
end of it I heard my own voice saying, 'And 
fifty!' 

"A terrible silence followed, during which the 
auctioneer looked inquiringly first at the opener 
and then at the company generally. To my sur- 
prise and horror the red-faced dealer gave no 
sign of life. I realized now, as I ought to have 
done at first, that he had shot his bolt. 

" 'Four thousand and fifty guineas offered,* 
said the auctioneer, again searching the room. 

"My heart stopped; my blood congealed. 
There was no sound but a curious smothered 
noise from my friend. 

" 'Four thousand and fifty guineas. Any 
advance on four thousand and fifty guineas?' — 
and the hammer fell. 
[182] 



In the Padded Seats 

"That was a nice pickle to be in ! Here was 
I, with sixty-three pounds in the world and not 
five hundred pounds' worth of securities, the 
purchaser of a picture which I didn't want, for 
four thousand and fifty guineas, the top price 
of the day. Turning for some kindly support 
to my friend I found that he had left me; but 
not, as I feared at the moment, from baseness, 
but, as I afterwards discovered, in order to find 
a remote place in which to lean against the 
wall and laugh. 

"Stunned and dazed as I was, I pulled myself 
together sufficiently to hand my card, nonchal- 
antly (I hope) to the clerk who came for the 
millionaire collector's name, and then I set to 
pondering on the problem what to do next. Pic- 
ture after picture was put up and sold, but I 
saw none of them. I was running over the 
names of uncles and other persons from whom it 
might be possible to borrow, but wasn't; won- 
dering if the moneylenders who talk so glibly 
about 'note of hand only' really mean it; specu- 
lating on the possibility of confessing my pov- 
erty to one of Christie's staff and having the 
picture put up again. Perhaps that was the 
best way — and yet how could I do it after all 
the other bids I had made? The staff looked 
so prosperous and unsympathetic, and no one 
would believe it was a mistake. A genuine mis- 

[183] 



Giving and Receiving 

take of such a kind would have been rectified at 
once. 

"Meanwhile the sale came to an end and I 
stood on the outskirts of the little knot of 
buyers round the desk who were writing cheques 
and giving instructions. Naturally I preferred 
to be the last. It was there that I was joined 
by my friend; but only for a moment, for at a 
look at my face he rammed his handkerchief in 
his mouth and again disappeared. Alone I was 
to dree this awful weird. I have never felt 
such a fool or had colder feet in all my life. 
I believe I should have welcomed a firing party. 

"And then the unexpected happened, and I 
realized that a career of rectitude sometimes has 
rewards beyond the mere consciousness of virtue. 
A voice at my ear suddenly said, 'Beg pardon. 
Sir, but was you the gent that bought the big 
Daubigny.''' 

"I admitted it. 

" 'Well, the gent who offered four thousand 
guineas wants to know if you'll take fifty guineas 
for your bid.' 

"If ever a messenger of the high gods wore a 
green baize apron and spoke in husky Cockney 
tones this was he. I could have embraced him 
and wept for joy. Would I take fifty guineas.'' 
Why, I would have taken fifty farthings. 

"But how near the surface and ready, even in 
[184] 



In the Padded Seats 

the best of us, is worldly guile! 'Is that the 
most he would offer?' I had the presence of 
mind to ask. 

" 'It's not for me to say/ he replied. 'No 
'arm in trying for a bit more, is there?' 

" 'Tell him I'll take a hundred/ I said. 

"And I got it. 

"When I found my friend I was laughing too, 
but he became grave at once on seeing the 
cheque. 

" 'Well, I'm hanged !' he said. 'Of all the 
luck! Well, I'm hanged!' 

"Then he said, 'Don't forget that if it hadn't 
been for me you wouldn't have come into Chris- 
tie's at all.' 

" 'I shall never forget it,' I said. 'It is in- 
delibly branded in letters of fire on my heart. 
My hair hasn't gone white, has it?' " 

V: AN IMPLACABLE RACONTEUR 

Some men have no pity. 

"Now that's an amazing thing," said the 
dramatist as he sank into the chair beside me. 
"Did you see that man go out? Well, he's just 
told me a story I told him yesterday, and he 
told it very badly too." 

"Why didn't you stop him?" I asked. 

[185] 



Giving and Receiving 

"He didn't give me a chance. A man who 
has a story to tell is a very diflBcult fellow to 
stop." 

"You could say you'd heard it." 

"Quite useless. He'd say, 'I doubt if you've 
heard my version,' and go right on. No, the 
only chance you have is to insist that it was a 
story that you yourself told him yesterday. 
That sometimes abashes them, but not always. 
This fellow was in full swing before I realized 
what was happening, and then I didn't say any- 
thing for fear of hurting his feelings. Fear of 
hurting other people's feelings is at the bottom 
of most troubles and all boredom." 

I agreed. 

"And then after he had begun, I was inter- 
ested to see how he would finish it. It's the 
kind of story that depends on the finish." 

"And he told it badly .^" I repeated. 

"Yes. He's not a raconteur, anyway; he 
couldn't tell any story really well, least of all a 
subtle one like this." 

"It's a most extraordinary thing," said the 
doctor, who was sitting near by and now laid 
down his paper, "that every man seems to be 
under the delusion that he is a born raconteur. 
Why? We admit frankly that we can't act, we 
can't mimic, we can't sing, we can't dance even; 
but we all lay claim to the gift of telling a story. 
[186] 



In the Padded Seats 

Nothing in fact is so difficult as to tell a story- 
well. It needs a score of separate gifts. And 
yet every one who has heard a story is under the 
impression that he is qualified to repeat it. 
Absurd. I should like to belong to a club 
where any member who told a story badly would 
be expelled." 

"You're right," said the dramatist. "There 
ought to be a School of Narrative Art, just as 
there is a School of Dramatic Art." 

"Ought there.''" said the doctor. "I doubt 
it. Personally I should infinitely prefer a sys- 
tem designed not for encouraging story-telling, 
but for suppressing the practice." 

So saying he left us. 

"All the same," said the dramatist, "although 
I am not in favour of adding to the educational 
establishments of this country, I do hold that a 
school for raconteurs would be an excellent 
thing. The way stories are murdered and man- 
gled to-day is something lamentable. Take the 
one I was talking about when you came in — 
the story of the close race." 

"Oh, that," said I. "I've heard it." 

"Yes, very likely. But I wonder if you heard 
it right," the dramatist pursued. "The exact 
phrasing has a lot to do with it." 

"I expect it was all right," I said. "I had it 
from Travers, and he usually tells a story well." 

[187] 



Giving and Receiving 

"Do you think he does?" 

"Yes, I do," I said. 

"I wonder. In my version it goes like this." 
And he then settled down to his too congenial 
task. 

"You can either tell it as a story frankly/' he 
said, "or you can lure the company on to give 
examples of the closest races they have ever 
seen and then chip in with the denouement. 
It's all in the denouement." 

"I know," I said; "I've heard it." 

"Yes, but you must hear it right. Now I'll 
tell it you wrong first — as that fellow just now 
told it to me, and then I'll tell it my way. 
Well, you begin by saying that there were three 
men talking about close races they had seen. 
One said that once, when he was at Henley 
watching the tussle for the Goblets, the boats 
were absolutely level until the sun raised a 
blister on the bow of one of them and it won. 
Could there be a closer race than that? The 
second man said that he had once seen what was 
bound to be a dead-heat for the Derby until a 
bee stung one of the horses on the nose and, 
owing to the swelling, it won. That's the kind 
of thing — you can invent whatever nonsense you 
like; but you must always add, 'Could there be 
a closer race than that?' And then the third 
man says, 'Well, you may call those close races, 
[188] 



In the Padded Seats 

if you like. But I can tell you of a closer. I 
know the Scotch.' 

"Well/' the dramatist continued, "that's how 
the man told it to me just now; but I think 
that's too direct. When I tell it, I say, 'Ah, 
well, I suppose those were close races. But 
last summer I was in Aberdeen . . .' and leave 
it there. More subtle, don't you think.''" 

I said I feared it might be too subtle. 

"Of course," the dramatist hastened to say, 
"ethnologically I think it's rot. The Scotch are 
not like that, really; it's just a convention to say 
they are. But for the purposes of the story, yes." 

At this moment another member of the club 
drifted in and subsided into an arm-chair. The 
dramatist hailed him. 

"I was just telling our friend here," he said, 
"the story of the close race. I wonder if you've 
heard it?" 

"About the Scotch? I have," said the new 
arrival. 

"Ah, but I doubt if you've heard my version," 
the dramatist persisted. 

It was here that I crept away. 

VI : THE BOND 

"Life's rum, isn't it?" said StandisK. 
"In what particular?" I asked. 

[189] 



Giving and Receiving 

"In most," he said. "But just at the moment 
I was thinking of imperfect sympathies; I was 
thinking of the long time it takes to understand 
some people; waiting for Fate's clock to strike; 
and so on. When I was at Winchester thirty 
and more years ago, there was a boy I rather 
admired. But I never quite got on with him. 
He was reserved, and so was I; he was a little 
senior to me; he had a rather aloof way with 
him. Sometimes we seemed to be on the brink 
of a complete understanding, and then it all 
went wrong. Perhaps the best way to put it is 
that he attracted and repelled almost equally; 
but one never knew when the currents would 
change. Anyway, we went through our time at 
Winchester without ever getting properly on 
terms, and I regretted it then with some acute- 
ness, and have regretted it mildly ever since." 

"Yes?" I said. 

"We never met after leaving school," he con- 
tinued. "I went to Oxford and he didn't, and, 
except that I heard of him at the Bar, I knew 
nothing of him. For thirty years and more — 
thirty-three, to be exact — I had never seen him 
till Well, it was as long as that." 

He paused. 

"You know the phrase, 'How little did I 
think !' It's always cropping up in our lives — a 
perpetually recurring tribute to the way in 
[190] 



In the Padded Seats 

which the more distant and apparently irrecon- 
cilable events are linked together. 'How little 
did I think!' You've said it to yourself scores 
of times?" 

"More like hundreds," I replied. 

"Yes, hundreds/' he repeated. "But never 
have I said it with more astonishment than this 
morning. I'll tell you. You know my son?" 

"The one who was lunching with you the other 
day?" I asked. "The sailor?" 

"Yes, I've only one." 

"A nice frank boy I thought him," I said. 

"Yes, I think he is; I hope so. The sea's 
good for them. Gives them level eyes; keeps 
them simple. Well, latterly, he's been having 
some leave, and he seems to have spent it in 
the usual way, for he came to me the other day 
and said he was engaged. The prettiest, sweet- 
est girl in the world, and all the rest of it. It 
was sooner than I had been hoping; I had even 
made some foolish plans about holiday jaxmts 
with him alone. What's the use?" He sighed. 
"Anyway, there it was, and as everything 
seemed settled I had to acquiesce — always pro- 
vided that there was similarly no objection on 
the side of the girl's people. Her father, it 
seemed, was being told at the same time that I 
was. 'What is her father?' I asked. Odd how 
one says 'what?' before 'who?' The boy didn't 

[191] 



Giving and Receiving 

know — very characteristically. His name, 
then? Hurley. The only Hurley I had ever 
met was my school-fellow at Winchester — the 
boy with whom I had never been able quite to 
get on terms. You see what's coming?" 

I said that it looked easy, but there was often 
a catch. 

He continued: "It was arranged that I should 
call on him, and this morning I did so ; and he 
was my Winchester Hurley, after all. Of 
course he was ; he had to be ! Well, we fixed up 
the engagement, and I saw the girl — she's 
pretty, right enough — and then we began to 
talk, and I told him just what I've been telling 
you about my feelings for him at school; and 
what do you think he said? He said, 'That's 
exactly how I used to feel about you. I wanted 
you for a friend, and I couldn't get you, and it 
worried me.' " 

Standish was silent for a moment. Then he 
added with a smile: "Hurley's dining with me 
here to-night." 

"Splendid," I said. 

"But the joke is," he went on, "that suddenly 
we both began to say, simultaneously, 'How 
little did I think ' " 

I laughed. "Of course." 

"It is odd, isn't it, life?" he resumed. "Here 
were two boys failing to get to know each other, 
[192] 



In the Padded Seats 

and then, thirty years after, they are brought 
together, and without any of the old hesitation 
or awkwardness, by the agency of their chil- 
dren. School-boys' children ! Children unborn, 
unthought of, were to fix it up. Devilish 
rum!" 



[193] 



FATE 

HISTORY is said to repeat itself, but few 
persons live long enough to notice it do- 
ing so. Except, of course, in the matter of 
miners' strikes. On tlie other hand, any one 
who keeps a diary can prove that weather re- 
peats itself with some steadiness. The benig- 
nant Good Friday that rejoiced us all the other 
day, for example, was an exact replica of a 
Good Friday about a dozen years ago, when I 
was spending Easter with some friends in 
Surrey, in one of those pleasant half-timbered 
gabled houses on the slopes of Leith Hill. 

There was no lawn tennis yet, for Easter was 
early and the fine weather very sudden, and so 
after lunch it was suggested that some of us 
should walk over to Coldharbour "to see the 
girls." 

"You'd like to," my hostess said to me, 
"wouldn't you.^" 

And I said "Yes," on the ground of general 
friendliness, or even amativeness, although who 
the girls were I had no notion. 

On arriving at a tiny cottage with a garden 
stretching down to the road, it was discovered 
[194] 



Fate 

that they were two art students who had made 
this their country home. Very jolly girls, too, 
and very pretty in their blue smocks. One in 
particular — the fair-haired one — I admired. 

It was after we had finished tea that the fair- 
haired girl, who had been down at the gate 
looking along the road at the many stragglers 
from town tempted out by the fine weather and 
the holiday, suddenly said, "Wouldn't it be a 
joke to put up a 'Teas Provided' notice! All 
those poor things are dying for tea. And," she 
added wistfully, "it might help us to pay our 
rent." 

"Why not?" I said. "All you want is a 
board to stick the notice to"; and we instantly 
became busy with the game. The girls put their 
biggest kettles on the fire; others were set to 
cutting bread-and-butter; some one was dis- 
patched to a neighbour's for more milk and 
butter; pots of jam were excavated from the 
store-cupboard; and I was given the task of 
fixing up the placard in a conspicuous position. 

It worked like magic. I had hardly turned 
round from surveying the board when the first 
customers entered. 

Customers continued to enter until all the 
food was eaten and quite a lot of money had 
been taken, and we were all tired out with our 
duties. And the experiment had been so smc- 

[195] 



Giving and Receiving 

cessful that all the customers expressed satis- 
faction and the determination not only to return 
some day but to recommend the place to their 
friends. 

But "Never again!" the girls vowed, as they 
contemplated their empty larder: so empty that 
we had to carry them back with us to dinner. 

That was — how many years ago.'' — ten years 
at least, during which I never saw them, or 
indeed thought of them. 

This last Easter I had no such adventure, 
being kept in town. But early spring chancing 
to be the one time when London is just about as 
good as the country, I did not complain: and as 
I walked through Kensington Gardens on Good 
Friday afternoon I felt as contented with life 
and as confident of a summer in store for us as 
any one in the real Arcady could be. Many of 
the trees were covered with tender green buds; 
others were merely holding back; blackbirds 
were singing. Every one was in holiday mood. 
Some day, not far distant, the Oval and Lord's 
would open their gates ! 

I paused by the Round Pond to watch the 
navigators at their play, and was conscious of a 
small boy, with a Sealyham frisking about his 
feet, who was waiting, pole in hand, for his 
wayward ship to make harbour. I was pecu- 
liarly interested in this little boy, because of his 
[196] 



Fate 

eagerness and the radiance which emanated 
from his clear skin and sunny locks; he seemed 
to add to the light of the day, perhaps actually 
did so. He was dressed in one of those suits 
of (woollen) mail in which children now run 
about so attractively, the colour being a ruddy 
tint somewhere between the flesh of a salmon 
trout and the bricks of Hampton Court, and 
altogether he was very pleasant indeed to look 
upon. 

The vessel having given up its circular tack- 
ings and at last condescended to reach shore, the 
little boy was joined by his mother, a tall, 
graceful young woman in the late twenties, 
whom I felt sure I had seen before but could 
not place, and they prepared to leave. As they 
passed me a look of recognition came into her 
eyes and she smiled, and instantly I knew who 
she was. She was one of the two girls who 
had the cottage near Leith Hill — the one who, 
on that other happy Good Friday, had sug- 
gested putting up the notice, "Teas Provided." 

We recalled this incident as I walked with 
her towards Campden Hill. 

"Do you remember who our first customers 
were.^" she asked. 

I said that I couldn't exactly. 

"Surely you remember?" she said. "An 
oldish man and his undergraduate son." 

[197] 



Giving and Receiving 

"Oh, yes, of course/' I said. "In grey 
tweeds. The son rather nervous and shy." 

She laughed. 

"Do you see any likeness between him and 
my little boy.^" she inquired. 

"Good Heavens !" I exclaimed. "Did you 

Surely But that's destiny if you like. 

That was asking for it." 

"Yes," she replied, "wasn't it.'' We became 
engaged that summer." 



[198] 



THE INJUSTICE 

IF I were able to converse with the dead, one 
of the first persons to whom I should try to 
get an introduction would be Murillo, because 
I have so strongly on my mind an injustice to 
that painter which is being done systematically 
every day in the cathedral at Seville. I think 
he ought to know about it and put it right. 

Imagine the introduction completed: Murillo 
called by a celestial page from some favoured 
spot near the Throne — for one who painted the 
Son and the Mother as he did must be honoured 
exceedingly — to what corresponds in Heaven 
to an earthly telephone-box, and myself at 
the other end of the invisible broadcasting 
wire. 

Then, "Master," I should say, assuming that 
to the disembodied all languages are equally 
simple — "Master, you remember your picture in 
Seville Cathedral — 'St. Anthony of Padua 
visited by the Infant Saviour' — one of those you 
painted for the Chapter.''" 

And Murillo, although he painted so much 
and so freely, and although St. Anthony was 
more than once his subject, would, I feel sure, 

[199] 



Giving and Receiving 

have a very distinct remembrance of this beau- 
tiful thing. 

"It is now in the Baptistery of the Cathe- 
dral," I should, however, explain, in case he 
might have forgotten; "the first chapel on the 
left as you enter from the north-west door, just 
past the inner door of the Sagradio. 

"You go in out of the blinding Seville sun," 
I should continue. 

Here I imagine Murillo would smile wistfully. 

"And from the shattering noise of the 
trams. . . ." 

"Trams?" he would ask in wonder; and I 
should have to explain what trams are, and 
rebuke myself for being such a bungler as to 
mention them and confuse the issue. 

Then I should hurry on: "You go out of the 
street into restful gloom and perfect quiet — 
unless perhaps the organ is being played. But 
you know all this?" 

And Murillo would indicate that he knew, 
perhaps again not without a certain wistfulness. 

"And now," I should say, "to come to the 
injustice. Your 'St. Anthony' hangs in the 
little chapel, which is always barred and bolted 
and always dark, except when well-to-do visi- 
tors want to see it. Then, and only then, is the 
chapel unlocked and the blind of the window 
pulled up. That is to say, the sight of your 
[200] 



The Injustice 

beautiful painting, made for the House of God, 
every corner of which should be open and free 
to all — the sight of this painting is obtainable 
only by those who can aflPord to pay the sacris- 
tan a fee. What do you think about it?" 

And Murillo, I am sure, would be seriously 
disturbed. 

"I can't believe," he might say, "that the 
Church — my Church — is as mercenary as that. 
Don't you think there is a fear that constant 
light might injure the picture?" 

"There is constant light in the Seville Mu- 
seum," I should reply, "where seventeen of your 
masterpieces hang, including your favourite, the 
'St. Thomas distributing Alms.' " 

And at the mention of this picture Murillo, I 
think, would utter a sigh, for of all his works the 
"St. Thomas" was the one he loved best. 

"And in the Prado," I should go on, "a room 
is dedicated to you, and the blinds are always 
up." 

"Do you really mean to tell me," Murillo 
would say, "that my 'St. Anthony,' in the 
Cathedral, is not normally visible at all? That 
visitors to the Cathedral are absolutely unable 
to see it without applying to the sacris- 
tan?" 

And I should have to tell him that that is the 
case. 

[201] 



Giving and Receiving 

"And do people want to see it, try to see it ?" 
he might ask. 

And I should tell him that there are always 
some at the bars trying to pierce the gloom 
or waiting for a party of wealthy tourists to 
arrive with the sacristan. 

"And the sacristan receives money?" 

"Every time." 

"And I painted for the poor !" Murillo would 
exclaim. "I painted for the poor and the sim- 
ple. I took my Madonna from the people, and 
my Holy Child from the people! Does not the 
Archbishop of Seville know about it?" 

"Apparently he has not thought it worth 
while to interfere." 

"But the ecclesiastics in charge of the Cathe- 
dral — don't they know?" 

"They too have not interfered," I should have 
to reply. 

And Murillo would be silent for a while. 

"It Is not only the poor," I should resume. 
"There are other people denied your picture too 
— those who hold that the Church's treasures of 
art should be free to all, and who therefore re- 
fuse to pay. Did you not intend this picture 
to be as accessible as, say, the Confessionals?" 

"Of course, of course ! Then what is to be 
done?" he would ask after another silence. 

"I was wondering," I should say, "if you 
[202] 



The Injustice 

couldn't speak to St. Peter about it? St. Peter 
is naturally en rapport with the Vatican, and he 
would let the Pope know. And then, of course, 
the Pope would go into the whole question of 
such fees. He cannot be aware how prevalent 
they are or he would have acted long ago." 



[203] 



"WHENEVER I SEE A GREY 
HORSE . . ." 



ALL horses are beautiful, but a grey can be 
JTml more beautiful than any. 

You remember Tagalie, who won the Derby 
in 1912? She was a pretty grey, if you 
like! 

No matter what the horse may be — racer or 
teamster — there is always something peculiarly 
attractive in a grey. 

One does not see a pair of high-stepping greys 
very often now, in these days of petrol and 
machinery, yet when one does, how they can 
make the heart beat! 

But in future whenever I see them I shall be 
conscious only of a sharp pain. 

In future whenever I see a grey horse I shall 
feel indignation and shame flushing through me. 

II 

"Of course you will go to a bull-fight while 
you are there," every one had said. 
[204] 



"Whenever I See a Grey Horse ..." 

"I suppose so/' I had replied. "It would be 
ridiculous to be in Spain and miss the chance. 
One, at any rate." 

in 

The setting of a bull-fight is wonderful. 

First and foremost, you are in Spain, and to 
be in Spain is to be thrilled. 

You may not care for much that is Spanish; 
but Spain is a country like no other: it is so old 
and so self-contained; it is so lazy and so hot; 
it has such vast cathedrals and such noble 
bridges; such flowers and such fruits; and in 
Spain nobody cares and everybody sleeps. 

Above all, it is a country of the past. 

Spain still has a million mules to every motor- 
car, and at any moment the muleteers might all 
have reined up to look with the greater ease and 
thoroughness at the odd figure of the rider of 
Rosinante, as he approached, lance in rest. 

What would seem to be the very sheep which 
that tragic romantic gentleman took for armies 
you may watch from the train as they graze 
where no grass is visible. You find the same 
windmills that he thought were giants, waving 
their arms. The paths are as steep, the plains 
as vast and as uninhabited, and the food is as 
simple and plentiful as when the Knight of the 
Rueful Countenance sought his adventures. 

[205] 



Giving and Receiving 

Were he to return he would^ outside the cities, 
find almost nothing new but the scent of to- 
bacco. 

IV 

None of the preparations for a great spec- 
tacle can be dull; but to the stranger — and 
perhaps to the initiated — those of a bull-fight 
have special intensity. The atmosphere is 
charged with excitement. 

There is so much to watch. 

The great gay arena itself, with its myriad 
seats gradually filling under no roof but the 
blue of the sky. 

The yellow and red patterned sand of the 
ring. 

The spectators seeking their places, all carry- 
ing cushions to put on the hard bricks; all ani- 
mated, hailing their friends, laughing, disput- 
ing, expectant and full of that odd blend of 
carelessness, leisureliness, and independence 
which makes Spain more democratic even than 
that great Republic of the West which, but for 
a Spanish sailor, might never have been 
heard of. 

The women with their black, black eyes and 
red, red lips, their lace veils, and their sway- 
ing, voluptuous contours. 

When they have found their places and have 
[206] 



"Whenever I See a Grey Horse . . ." 

spread their dazzling shawls on the railing, they 
look around, while the men turn on them their 
long, bold, appraising gaze. 

(Why is it that in Latin countries the glance 
is so neglected and the stare such a rite?) 

And over all is the sun; everything is swim- 
ming in his hot light. 

In the ring is activity too. A gang of men 
are sprinkling the coloured sand with a long 
hose; others are carrying the various imple- 
ments of the spectacle — poles, darts, cloaks. 

Now and then one of the actual heroes, all 
brilliant in his uniform, will emerge from a 
doorway, and, walking around the narrow circu- 
lar passage outside the barrier, collect homage, 
return salutations, here and there touching the 
hand of an admirer and exchanging a word or 
two. How proud the admirer ! 

A brass band in hot orange uniform plays 
from time to time; but the symphony of human 
voices is constant, amid it rising occasionally the 
louder cries of the water-sellers and the fruit- 
sellers and the sellers of cigarettes and cigars. 

I know of no scene more sparkling, more 
glaringly showy than this. 

And whenever I see a grey horse, I shall 
see it. 

But whenever I see a grey horse I shall also 
see . . . 

[207] 



Giving and Receiving 



And then, four o'clock having come, the trum- 
pets (it is the only occasion on which Spain is 
punctual) sound the start, and at the blast two 
police officers in traditional black velvet robes 
canter into the ring and, advancing towards the 
Royal Box, make their obeisance and receive 
permission to begin. They then return to the 
entrance and lead in the army of attack — the 
matadores, the banderilleros, the capeadores and 
the picadores, with all the camp-followers about 
them, and lastly the harnessed mules that are 
to drag away the carcasses. 

In they come, marching to the brazen music 
and throwing their glittering chests: a formida- 
ble array indeed to encounter the puzzled, 
frightened creature from an Andalusian farm, 
which for the last few hours has been fretting 
and pawing in the pitch-darkness of a cell a 
few yards from the arena ! 

All having made their salutations, the ring is 
cleared, save for the capeadores, or cloak- 
wavers, and the great moment arrives. 

VI 

The business of goading and killing a bull 
lasts for about twenty minutes, and these twenty 
[208] 



"Whenever I See a Grey Horse . . ." 

minutes are made up of moments of interest and 
excitement that is sometimes intense; but the 
only really great moment is the first. 

You look around and the arena is empty save 
for a few men with red cloaks at the far side. 

Then — suddenly — the bull. 

The barrier has opened and shut again, and 
there he is — all lonely and surprised, with a 
questioning air not unmingled with annoyance, 
his great brown head lowered. 

For a while he stands still, taking what stock 
his eyes, muddled by the recent darkness and 
the present glare, are capable of. 

Where he is he has no notion, for he has never 
seen anything like this before. 

The sun has become so dazzling. 

Fourteen thousand human beings are watch- 
ing. 

And the colours that he hates are everywhere: 
the ground is red and yellow and, over there, 
what are those moving figures with red cloths? 

He tries to get back, and there is no door. 

He begins to scent danger. . . . 

The bull, I take it, does not know what his 
fate is to be ; for who could have informed him ? 
Dead bulls tell no tales. Nor why should he 
imagine anything so unpleasant? He has been 
well cared for ; and those other bulls, his friends, 
who, from time to time, had left the farm, had, 

[209] 



Giving and Receiving 

it is true, never returned, but there was no 
reason to suppose that cruelty or harm had be- 
fallen them. 

The bull may not know, but very soon he 
comes to suspect. . . . 

This bull was suspicious now. He was also 
getting very angry. 

But the principal impression that he con- 
veyed was one of perplexity. To him the whole 
thing was so bewildering it was an out- 
rage. . . . 

VII 

The capeadores now advanced to fulfil their 
purpose, which is to increase this perplexity. 

One hears that these men carry their lives in 
their hands, but I saw no sign of the bull being 
an antagonist to be feared by any expert prac- 
titioner; for, apart altogether from his bemused 
condition, his onset is so undisciplined, his 
rushes are so brainless and mechanical, that to 
deflect his course is easy; and he seems to have 
been gifted by Providence with neither idea 
nor power of turning and beginning again. 
Once past the cloak, which engages all his at- 
tention, he is innocuous until the next provoca- 
tion sets in. 

Fear is, however, not absent, for the capea- 
[210] 



"Whenever I See a Grey Horse ..." 

dores are continually fleeing to the bolt holes 
in the barrier with ignominious speed. 



vin 

Each capeadore having displayed his prowess 
and address, applause being awarded them ac- 
cording to their proximity to the bull and the 
exercise of the minimum of movement in avoid- 
ing him — merely to sway the body away being, 
of course, far more admirable than to use the 
feet (but oh ! how pathetically dazed and stupid 
the creature is!) — the next act begins. 

The horses enter. 

iz 

Whenever I see a grey horse I shall see, above 
all, one of these, who was also grey. 

All four of them were thin and old, but the 
grey was the oldest and the leanest. Its 
emaciation was terrible ; and the man on its back 
was so large and robust and prosperous. 

I have said that the bull probably does not 
know his fate, although he must come to suspect 
it; but since certain of the horses have left bull- 
rings alive (though only to enter again) some 
tidings of their destiny have no doubt reached 
the others. 

[211] 



Giving and Receiving 

Besides, they may have caught sight behind 
the scenes of a not too badly injured comrade 
being sewn up to serve again. 

And so this poor old grey may have known. 

But even if he did know he could not have 
appeared more hopeless,, more despairingly in 
need of friendship from that super-animal of 
whom he is notoriously the friend. 

But there was no kindness for him there. 

On each horse was a brawny fellow in gay 
trappings, carrying a long pole, at the end of 
which is an iron spike with which a certain 
muscle in the bull's shoulder is to be severed; 
and all wore, for what I was to learn was a good 
reason, thick leggings and enormous boots. 

The time having come, the horses' eyes were 
covered with black bandages, and the second act 
of the drama began in earnest. 

I was expecting to see steeds capable of es- 
caping from the bull's attacks. I now learned 
that towards them, all blind and quiescent and 
infirm, the bull had to be lured, and cheated 
into an assault which has no real significance in 
the contest whatever. 

This cheating is the task of the men with the 
red cloaks; it is they who by a series of rushes 
gradually bring the angry, puzzled creature 
near a horse and persuade him that that horse 
is his foe. 
[212] 



"Whenever I See a Grey Horse . . ." 

What the natural attitude of a bull to a 
horse is, I cannot say; but I should doubt if it 
is hostile. I seem to have seen horses and 
cattle grazing peacefully in common. 

The old grey certainly could have had no 
quarrel with the bull, nor the bull with him; 
but by the time the capeadores and picadores 
have done their duty, a bull is incapable of dis- 
tinguishing anything and might think its 
favourite cow its deadliest enemy. 

So then, finding itself near the grey, whose 
only offence was this contiguity, and who was 
being held up by the surrounding athletes so 
that there might be no evasion, the bull, so 
incapable of any form of retaliation on all these 
quick-witted, quick-footed men, lowered its head 
and charged. . . . 

It was the most sickening and debased mo- 
ment of my life. 

The tottering victim was actually lifted from 
the ground. . . . 

Its bowels. . . . 

The bull was now lost to all shame. He had 
found a butt and was wreaking his muddled 
vengeance on it. 

Again and again the horns entered and tore ; 
his shaggy head was bright with blood. 

At the first shock the horse was astounded: 
his whole body trembled with astonishment and 

[213] 



Giving and Receiving 

pain. Then he gradually sank and fell over, his 
rider winning rounds of applause by remaining 
in the saddle till the last possible moment. Not 
exactly in the saddle but half in and half out, 
the leg nearest the bull, and therefore in the 
danger zone, having long been raised out of 
danger. . . . 

Upholders of bull-fights have said to me that 
the circumstance that the horses are so old, and 
must soon die anyway, is a palliation. But 
is it.? 

I doubt if this disembowelling, even though 
essential to the sport, need be so deliberate. 



The grey being no long game — for even the 
loyallest horse must fail to provide further 
amusement when most of his vital organs are 
strewing the ground — the capeadores drew the 
bull away towards another. 

But he seemed to have lost interest in them. 

He was incited by every device; he was 
prodded and goaded by the picadores; but he 
did no more than gore two horses with so casual 
a disdain that it was possible, when this session 
of the fight closed, for them to be cantered off 
with only a few of their entrails hanging out. 
[214] 



"Whenever I See a Grey Horse . . ." 

XI 

In the next act the bull is engaged and en- 
raged by the banderilleros, who, holding a rib- 
boned dart in each hand, manceuvre until it is 
in position and then fling them into his skin in 
a sensitive part just behind the head where they 
prick and sting and infuriate. 

There seemed to be some peril in this pro- 
ceeding, but attendant capeadores, all ready 
with distractions, dilute it. 

ZII 

And then came the final scene when the 
matador administers the fatal thrust. For the 
bull has no sporting chance. He never escapes. 

With his long sharp rapier concealed by his 
cloak — although not so concealed, I fancied, 
that the bull was without suspicion, or shall I 
say (for he must have been tiring of so much 
life) without hope? — the famous artist played 
with his victim for a few minutes with perfect 
composure and mastery, and then, seizing his 
opportunity, plunged the steel into its side, near 
the shoulder, and left it there. 

The bull staggered a little, regained its 
steadiness, looked round at us all wonderingly 

[215] 



Giving and Receiving 

and with a hint of reproach, and made an effort 
to regain its strength; and then its knees bent 
and it rolled over and, quivering, expired. 

It was a record kill, I understand, and the 
spectators were rapturous. 

And then in trotted the two teams of mules 
with their tackle, one of which dragged the 
carcass of the bull out of the arena that he 
had dignified, and the other the carcass of the 
grey horse, which had been left where it fell, 
dead, done for and negligible. 

And the great gay concourse, of which I made 
one, lit new cigarettes and exchanged criticisms 
on the merits of the fray, and prepared for the 
next encounter. 

XIII 

But I had seen enough. 

My ticket entitled me to witness the deaths 
of five more of the handsomest bulls in Anda- 
lusia ; but I came away. 

And now, and henceforward, whenever I see 
a grey horse . . . 



[216] 



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